


Stranger in Paradise

by AttendezlaCreme



Series: Velvet Waltz-verse [2]
Category: Inglourious Basterds (2009)
Genre: 1950s, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Breakfast, CIA, California, Detective Noir, Diners, Espionage, F/M, Fifties, Film Industry, Fluff, Get in loser we’re going Nazi hunting, Golden Age Hollywood, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Kidnapping, Los Angeles, M/M, Marriage, Murder, Mystery, Nazi hunting, Nazis, New York City, Parenthood, Police, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Science, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:13:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22962232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AttendezlaCreme/pseuds/AttendezlaCreme
Summary: When Hans Landa and his wife Sylvia agree to help the CIA find a Nazi fugitive in 1950s Los Angeles, they uncover explosive secrets, betrayals, and a twisted web of evil beneath the glamour of Tinseltown.A sequel to Velvet Waltz.
Relationships: Hans Landa/Original Female Character(s), Smithson Utivich/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Velvet Waltz-verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632202
Comments: 29
Kudos: 36





	1. The Dossier

The long wail of a siren drifted up from Riverside Drive that warm September morning, wandering into the open bedroom window, and finding the horizontal Sylvia Leventhal. Twelve stories above the traffic, she opened her eyes.

The smell of coffee. Clearly, she had not been the one to make the coffee. Interesting.

What really shook her awake, though, was what she didn’t hear: Miri’s voice.

Ah. Right. Miri was at college, two states away, where they’d dropped her off last week. There wouldn’t be any heated political discussions over breakfast, or jazz records blaring from her bedroom, for a while. She was simultaneously heartbroken and relieved.

She rolled onto her side, unwilling to break the spell just yet. God, she loved that bed. It was more than just comfortable, more than where she lay with her husband every night, safe and warm. After the war years, when safety and comfort were so tough to come by, she never took it for granted.

Instinctively, she reached to her left. The sheets were cool to the touch.

“Angel,” came a familiar voice from the doorway.

She groaned. “Just a few more minutes.”

“We’re expected at the Plaza at 10, and it’s already 8:30.” Hans gently sat on the edge of the bed. “Cold feet, perhaps?”

“ _Not_ cold feet, just tired,” she said, sitting up. “Gimme.”

Hans smiled and handed Sylvia the mug, the one Miri had bought her for her birthday: it had a crocodile painted on it, its tail forming the handle, and the word ‘CROC-O-DOODLE-DOO.’

Just a splash of milk, just the way she liked it. “Coffee in bed? I’d better keep you around.”

“And almond croissants in the kitchen.” Hans waited for her reaction.

“You went to Hungarian Pastry without me?” she squealed. It was one of their favorite spots.

“I didn’t want to wake you.” He began to stroke her knee. “There won’t be much sleep in our immediate future.”

“ _If_ we take it. We haven’t actually said yes.”

“Correct. We could always turn it down.”

“We don’t know what they’re asking of us! It could be really dangerous.”

Hans smirked. “Has that ever stopped us before?”

Sylvia took a long swig of the coffee. “Nope.”

“I’m not looking forward to the surveillance. Personally, I hope this doesn’t mean G-men breathing down our necks 24 hours a day. I know how you chafe at authority.”

“How _I_ chafe at authority?” she snorted.

“And we should ask about the likelihood of being home for Thanksgiving break.”

“The likelihood is 100%. We’re not missing time with Miri.”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh god, Hans!” Sylvia set the mug on the nightstand. “I still don’t know what to tell her!”

“Perhaps, we just tell her we’re on vacation.” He leaned in and began to kiss her neck. “A long vacation in California.”

Sylvia sighed. “I guess…”

“Just laying on the beach, getting suntans, and eating oranges off of trees.” His hand began to travel up her thigh.

“Keep that up and we’ll never make the Plaza by 10,” she giggled.

\------------------------------------------------------------------

Arm in arm, the Landas strolled into the Plaza Hotel’s gilded lobby, past the marble columns, under the enormous chandelier, and nonchalantly to the florist’s kiosk.

Sylvia’s eyes glided over the array of flowers, their fragrance potent. Gardenias. She leaned in for a deep whiff, as instructed.

Within seconds, an affable pink-cheeked man in a blue suit approached them and shook both their hands. “Well, there are you are! So glad you could make it. Should we bring roses?” He had a slight accent neither of them could quite place, clinging to his r’s like a grace note.

“Personally, I prefer gardenias to roses,” Sylvia said, pleased with her own line delivery.

“Let’s go ask your mother what she thinks,” the man returned with a wink. That was the end of the script.

They followed their contact to the elevators. There were men scattered around the lobby, buried in newspapers or conversation, who neither turned nor looked up but certainly noticed as they passed.

“Secretary Willard Preiss. It really is an honor,” the man bubbled, shaking each of their hands vigorously. “Ya know, I almost had you two meet me over there. By the fifth column.”

Hans and Sylvia stared. He burst out laughing. “Just kiddin’. Just havin’ a little fun.”

“Where exactly are you from, Secretary Preiss?” Hans asked.

“The beautiful city of Charleston. As you can tell, I carry her everywhere I go.”

They rode in silence to a higher floor, followed Preiss down a plush hallway, then through heavy double doors. Twelve men turned at once, serious-looking men in what Sylvia recognized to be expensive suits, around a gleaming conference table. There were three empty seats at the near end.

Sylvia was embarrassed by how intimidated she felt.

“Gentlemen, I’m sure these two need no introduction, but let us welcome Hans and Sylvia Landa,” Preiss chirped, guiding them to their seats. He unbuttoned his jacket to sit.

“Leventhal Landa,” Sylvia said softly.

Hans’ fingers found hers under the table.

“So pleased you could finally join us,” came a gruff voice from the far end of the table. “We’re very sorry to have interrupted your vacation.”

Hans blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“He means the uh, length of time between your telegram and the date you agreed to meet with us,” Preiss clarified. “The CIA isn’t used to waiting around.”

“Excuse me,” Sylvia said, her anxiety suddenly overrided by another emotion. “Mister –“

“General Joseph Pearson, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

“General Pearson, have you seen my husband’s SS uniform in the Smithsonian?”

“Of course I have.”

“Did you see the baseball bat next to it?”

“I believe so,” he muttered.

“The owner of that bat didn’t come home. We stopped in Boston to see his parents. We also laid flowers on his marker. That’s why you waited three days.”

A leaden silence. Hans gave her hand a squeeze.

“Never mind all that.” Preiss smiled broadly. “These two, who have already done so much for this country and the cause of freedom, have stepped up to do even further service. And we are grateful to have them.”

A black suit on the far left leaned forward. “You’re supposed to be the Sherlock Holmes of Nazi Germany, aren’t you, Landa?”

“I much prefer that to the other nickname,” Hans said.

“Oh yeah,” an overeager young man chimed in. “They called him the Jew Hunter.”

Both tensed at the sound of it. It had been years.

“Yes, that was what they called me,” Hans answered, his voice careful. “I was tasked with finding and removing the Jewish population of France, which, yes, involved a great deal of detective work, and yes, I was extremely good at it.”

“That’s pretty nasty stuff,” said General Pearson.

Hans took a deep breath. “Gentlemen, I understand my past is uncomfortable to discuss. But, I believe my actions from that point forward speak for themselves.”

“Well, obviously he ran into a hitch,” Preiss jumped in. “And by that I mean, they got hitched!”

Sylvia’s eyes widened. “Something like that.”

“They’re obviously qualified, and a genuine Nazi adds some valuable expertise.” General Pearson sized them up from the far end. “I guess the only question is, are we comfortable sending a woman on a manhunt?”

“My wife liberated a prison and executed Operation Kino,” Hans said sharply. “If you even consider removing her from this mission, you remove me as well.”

“Aw,” said Preiss.

“Women can be very useful undercover,” another suit added from Pearson’s left. “And she’s less recognizable than Landa, that’s for sure.”

Murmurs around the table.

Sylvia affected her most bashful smile. The dumber she seemed, the more she could get away with.

Pearson sighed and scratched his balding head. “I guess we can make an exception. Before we discuss the details, we’d better do the assessments.”

Sylvia’s heart pounded. Assessments?

Another, firmer hand squeeze from Hans.

“No offense to either of you,” Preiss soothed, laying the packets in front of them. “But these are troubled times. We can’t be too careful, I’m sure you understand.”

Their hands unclasped, as they picked up their pens to begin.

The cover page read: _United States Department of Defense Loyalty and Anti-Communist Recruitment Questionnaire._

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

The target was a Dr. Fritz Heppner, rocket scientist and primary developer of Germany’s notorious V2 rocket, the world’s first long-range ballistic missile. It was only used twice before the war ended but to devastating effect, killing hundreds of Dutch and English civilians with each launch.

He was a stern-faced man, with a tight line of a mouth and dark, intelligent eyes behind glasses. His hairline had receded significantly since the war.

They studied the photos in the back of Preiss’s black towncar, as it headed up Park Avenue. Preiss hummed under his breath, clearly pleased his recruits were approved.

Hans paused on one photo: Heppner in SS uniform. There came the same swift kick in the gut he always felt.

“A Sturmbannführer,” Hans commented.

“Sturm-ban-son-of-a-bitch, more like,” Preiss said. “He got through Immigration, passed a military background check, got himself on a lab team at Fort Bliss with access to all kinds of classified defense material. Real slippery lil’ fucker.”

Sylvia pulled out a group photo, men smiling in the sunshine. Heppner, right of center, wore a cowboy hat. It was marked ‘FT. BLISS 6-30-51.’

“How did he pass a background check?” she asked.

“Let’s just say he misrepresented his wartime activities. Soon as they came to light, he emptied his bank account and vanished. Even his wife hasn’t heard from him since June.”

Sylvia flipped to the page about Heppner’s wife, Greta. The same name she had used as an SOE operative. “I hope she’s receiving a pension of some sort.”

“Oh, she’s taken care of,” Preiss said, staring out the window as the car turned along the north edge of Central Park. “Housed, fed, and watched real close.”

“So, Mr. Preiss,” Hans began in a tone that put Sylvia on alert. “When, exactly, did Heppner’s wartime ‘activities’ as you put it, come to the government’s attention?”

“I’d say around May of—“

“Not around, not ‘you’d say.’ I need a date.”

She could feel his glare without turning to see it.

Preiss shrank somewhat. “Now, that wasn’t my division, I didn’t hear anything about it ‘til Heppner stopped showin’ up for work. My understanding is May. About the middle of the month.”

“It sounds as though Heppner hid his past very well. How was it discovered?”

“That’s a funny story, actually. Someone in the CIA got suspicious, had a hunch, and made a call to West Berlin. I can send you documentation, Landa.”

“That won’t be necessary. Perhaps we’ll make a call to West Berlin ourselves.”

Preiss chuckled but some of his characteristic pink had left his cheeks. “Everything you need is in this file, scout’s honor. I do appreciate your thoroughness, I really do, but you’d better trust the CIA. They’re very good.”

“With all due respect, I didn’t become the Sherlock Holmes of Germany by trusting what I was told,” Hans said with a genial smile.

“That’s right, you didn’t,” Preiss returned. “You became the Jew Hunter.”

A beat.

Preiss turned back to the window. “Look at all those carts out, makin’ a killing in this weather. Anybody in the mood for a hot dog? Oh, my apologies, Sylvia.”

She didn’t exactly keep kosher, but that wasn’t Preiss’s business. “No need to apologize.”

“Well, I’m gonna hop out for one.” Preiss slapped his thigh decisively. “Pull over, Henry!”

\-------------------------------------------------------

The towncar dropped them off at the entrance of their building. They took the elevator in silence, the folder crunching slightly in Sylvia’s shoulder bag.

When they entered, Hans quickly checked the foyer for signs of entry, and finally satisfied, locked the door behind them.

“That shameless invertebrate,” he snarled, slinging his sport coat over a chair.

“None of it makes sense, Hans.” Sylvia sank onto the couch.

“Of course it doesn’t, angel. He lied to us.”

Hans sat next to her, draping an arm across her shoulders. She let the weight of her head fall on his shoulder, and they sat like this for some time.

“So what do we do?” she asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Hans said. “We go to California and find Fritz Heppner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! It's 1955 and it's time to f*ckin' party (i.e. hunt down Nazis!)
> 
> Yes, I'm alluding to a specific ugly thing in US history, and I'll go into detail once we get there. If you know, great! If you don't, you'll find out when the characters do!
> 
> No, I haven't watched Hunters, but I understand they're covering slightly similar ground. I also heard about the twist at the end so I don't think I'll be watching it.
> 
> I'm compiling a playlist for this one (mostly period accurate)! I'm not sure how to make one on Spotify without linking it to my personal account (which has my real name attached to it, and I really truly can't risk my real name being linked to my fic) so if anyone wants to make the playlist, please do!
> 
> Songs for this chapter:
> 
> Delicado - Percy Faith & His Orchestra  
> Sh-Boom - The Crew Cuts
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and leaving feedback!!


	2. A Place of Duty

“So…what does Kant mean by ‘duty’?’

Professor Dixon turned from the chalkboard, and took in the gallery of young, blank faces.

“He means that morally correct behavior is about motivation. If you’re acting from a place of duty, that means you’re not expecting to benefit. It also means you aren’t doing what you would normally have done, or taking the path of least resistance. You’re acting specifically out of _duty_ to others. And according to Kant, moral correctness is more about motivation than outcome, therefore, if you mean well, that’s more important than if your actions have the desired result.”

Alain pushed up his glasses, then turned to add “DUTY = PFLICHT” to the chalkboard.

“Pronounced _flickt,”_ he said, setting down the chalk. “Kant says the only truly good thing is good will. And why does good will matter?”

He paused, not really expecting an answer, then continued. “It matters because we are sentient beings, and as sentient beings, we have the capability to recognize right and wrong, therefore—“

He wrote “CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE” on the chalkboard, then glanced at his watch.

“Alright then, read chapter 2 by Tuesday, and be ready to argue Kant ethics vs. Aristotle’s.”

The students were up and shuffling out before he had even finished the sentence. He couldn’t blame them. It was beautiful outside, and 9am was too early for Foundations of Ethics, anyway. As Alain stuffed his folders into his shoulder bag, he was vaguely aware of someone else, still seated at the back of the room.

He fell in with the jostling crowd of students, pushed through the glass doors, and stepped outside.

The sun was almost unbearably bright after the dim lecture hall. He ducked his head, and crossed the quad in long strides, vaguely aware of being followed.

Entering a stately brick building, he took a sharp left, then stopped at the end of the hall to unlock his door.

“Hans, I really wish you would let me know before you come to my class,” Alain sighed.

“Was my presence distracting to you?” Hans said, drawing up alongside him. “I did sit in the back this time.”

“Better than front row, for sure.” He opened the door to his small, windowless office. “Hurry and take a seat, before the precisely zero students start lining up for my office hour.”

Hans settled into the chair, crossing his legs. It had been a decade since Alain had seen him in SS uniform, but even in a sweater and slacks, Hans was still intimidating.

“Go on, then.” Alain sat behind the desk. “What’s so important you couldn’t just ring me like a normal person?”

Hans cocked his head, that slightly-too-wide-for-his-face smile. “And miss one of your stimulating lectures?”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. So what do you need, Hans?”

“Must I need something to have a friendly visit?”

“For you, yes.”

Hans folded his hands in his lap. “I am glad to hear Smithson and yourself will be using our apartment while we’re away. That’ll be very convenient for you. No more walking through the park.”

“A bit less convenient for Smitty, going to the Lower East Side, but yes. Thank you. We’ll do our best not to light it on fire.”

A pause.

“I did want to ask you a few questions,” Hans began.

Alain chuckled. “Here we go.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re investigating something.” Alain leaned forward on the desk, studying Hans’ deadpan expression.

“Your words, not mine.”

“You sly old dog. I knew you’d never retire. So what is it? FBI? CIA? NYPD? Am I getting warm?”

Hans scoffed. “Surely a man of your undercover experience—“

“God, that’s exciting. I’m glad for you. And frankly, I’m glad for Syl, lord knows she needs something to do.”

“Well, yes, she has been restless,” Hans admitted.

“She doesn’t handle boredom well.”

“Never has.”

A pleasant moment. Their shared adoration of Sylvia was their strongest bond.

“So, whatever can I do for you, Standartenführer?”

Hans ignored the teasing use of his old title. “I need to access some classified military files, and I wondered if you could point me in the right direction.”

“You do know my partner is the Army vet, right?” Alain said. “Why not ask him?”

“Well, it’s much easier to just walk over to campus than to go to the Lower East Side,” Hans replied.

_Because you’re afraid to show your face at a Jewish knishery,_ Alain thought, but what left his mouth was, “I suppose Smitty works a bit further away.”

“Specifically, I wondered if you had or knew of anyone connected to Fort Bliss, in Texas.”

The young professor tilted his head down in disbelief. “Hans. You’d better buy a lottery ticket on the way home.”

“I don’t follow.”

“You know who did basic training at Fort Bliss? Aldo.”

“Well, that’s settled, then. I’ll give Aldo a call.” Hans stood to leave.

“Or Sylvia, maybe,” Alain said, also standing. “Aldo being Aldo.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“Is that all, Standartenführer? Nothing to blow up, no trains to chase?”

“Not this time, Alain.”

The men shook hands.

“Don’t forget, dinner at ours tomorrow. Smitty’s making rugelach.”

Hans smiled. “We won’t forget. Oh, forgive my pedantry, Alain, but it’s _pflicht._ You were close, for a non-native speaker, just missing a little _ch._ ”

“Pedantry forgiven,” Alain said. “We all must do our _pflicht.”_

“Better,” Hans commented, before vanishing down the hall.

Alain waited until the footsteps had receded into silence before sitting down again. He pulled out a folder of assignments to grade, uncapped his red pen, and brushed away his jealousy that his old friends were going back into the field, without him.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

After the last digit, Sylvia released the rotary dial, and it rolled back into position. The postcard shook slightly in her hand.

“It’s ringing,” she whispered to Hans, who darted into the kitchen to pick up the other receiver.

_Click._

“Yallo?” came a voice she would’ve recognized absolutely anywhere.

“Aldo! Hi!” she said. “It’s Sylvia!”

“Oh.” Breathing. “Hell, it’s been awhile. How you doin’ up there, Sylvia?”

“I guess it has been awhile…” Sylvia trailed off. It had been nearly 4 years.

“Yeah.”

A passing siren grew louder.

“Is that the po-lice after ya?” Aldo chuckled.

“Haw haw.” She motioned to Hans to close the window. “We’re good, Aldo. We dropped Miri off at college just last week.”

“College? Well, I’ll be goddamned.” Aldo laughed. “She was real little’n I met ‘er.”

“She was 10, I think, when we brought her to DC.”

_Is he drunk?_ Hans mouthed from the doorway.

Sylvia shook her head.

“Yeah, must’ve been it,” Aldo said. “I put ‘er picture up here on the wall, the one you two sent last Christmas.”

“Oh good, you got it,” Sylvia replied, then immediately wished she hadn’t.

Another awkward silence.

“So…how is Maynardville?”

“Good, good. Hot. Real hot.”

“Oh yeah, it’s been pretty warm up here too.”

Hans gave her an encouraging look.

She took a deep breath.

“Aldo…we’re actually…Hans and I are doing an investigation for the government. There’s…”

She glanced back at Hans. He nodded.

“…there’s a Nazi scientist we’re hunting down.”

It got so quiet on the other end she was afraid he’d hung up.

“Well, how about that,” he finally said.

“Yeah, he bullshat his way into the country, then went missing once they found out. But there’s some things the government doesn’t want to tell us. We need access to some classified files.”

“I hope you get ‘em.”

“Aldo, you trained at Fort Bliss, didn’t you?”

Another pause.

“Sylvia, I’m done huntin’ Nazis. You two have fun. I ain’t gettin’ involved.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be involved, we just need—“

“Bye, kid.”

_Click._

“Goddamnit, Aldo,” she sighed, reluctantly placing the receiver back on its cradle. 

\-------------------------------------------------------

They stayed at Smitty and Alain’s later than they should have, chatting and laughing, carving up the pineapple chicken gelatin mold Sylvia had brought, and washing down Smitty’s rugelach with maybe one too many glasses of chardonnay.

Warm and woozy from the wine, Hans kicked off his loafers, and laid back on the bed to watch his wife scramble to finish packing. She never, ever learned. How funny, that the traits that annoy one the most about a partner can be simultaneously so endearing.

“If you’re just gonna lay there, help me pick,” she said, pulling two day dresses from the closet.

“The seersucker,” he answered right away.

“Really? The red looks so good on me.”

“Everything looks good on you, angel.”

Sylvia scowled, and tossed both into the suitcase. “Oh god, is it wishful thinking to bring a swimsuit?”

“Certainly not. We'll find time.”

“Don’t say ‘the bikini,” she chuckled. “I think my bikini days are over.”

Hans smiled. “I respectfully disagree.”

“I can’t show my stomach on a Los Angeles beach, Hans! Everyone out there is so thin.”

“They’re thin because they’re starving,” he said seriously. “They take dreadful pills to look that way. I hope you don’t intend to emulate them.”

Sylvia balled up the bikini and tucked it into the suitcase. “Dieting? Not a chance. What does Scarlett O’Hara say? ‘I’ll never be hungry again?”

“ _With God as my witness, I’ll never go hungry again,”_ he thundered, in a rough approximation of a Southern accent. “Something in that vicinity.”

“Yes. In fact, I want a pile of enchiladas in front of me, as soon as we land tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She began to gather up stockings and underwear from the dresser drawer. Hans watched as she pursed her lips in concentration, lost in the practical math of how often she would do laundry. Her dark blonde hair, usually pinned up, tumbled messily around her shoulders.

His wife. His brilliant, infuriating, beautiful, stubborn, perfect wife. He didn’t deserve her.

From there, his mind began to wander into dangerous territory.

“Don’t forget to bring Aldo’s number,” he said.

She stood up. “You really think we should push him?”

“He’s our best chance at getting Heppner’s military file.”

“I don’t know, Hans,” she said, finally zipping the suitcase. “He’s been pretty messed up since the war. I don’t think he wants anything to do with this.”

“I find it difficult to believe Aldo Raine of all people has lost interest in Nazi hunting.”

Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed. “We should at least give him a few days.”

“Alright, then. We wait a few days.”

“You won’t go behind my back to call him, will you?” she pleaded.

“Sylvia. I wouldn’t dream of it.” He motioned for her to join him, and she obeyed.

“Better not,” she said, snuggling into him. “We’re a package deal.”

“Like Rhett and Scarlett, I suppose.”

He tilted her chin up to kiss her, a kiss that deepened and progressed so quickly, he forgot that in _Gone with the Wind,_ Rhett and Scarlett don’t actually end up together.

\---------------------------------------------------

On a lush side street in the Hollywood Hills, down a long, private driveway, the lauded composer Herbert Neumann sat behind the wheel of his luxury sedan. 

He faced his beautiful stucco house, white with red Spanish tiles, flanked by azaleas and bird-of-paradise, his in-ground swimming pool just visible behind it. The shadow from the wooden fence grew longer and longer, yet Herbert didn’t move.

One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other fell limp at his side, clutching a kitchen knife. His fine Italian suit, drenched down the front with blood, was beginning to dry. His throat gaped open, and his lifeless eyes, frozen in terror, saw nothing at all.

Beyond the towering palms, the pink stain of sunset spread across the sky. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and commenting!!! 
> 
> This week's soundtrack: 
> 
> Hava Nagila - David Carroll and his Orchestra (yes, seriously, the swingin'-est Hava Nagila you ever heard)  
> Manhattan - Blossom Dearie
> 
> Notes:  
> \- This should've gone on chapter one, but Hungarian Pastry is a real bakery in Manhattan. I'm fudging the opening date by about a decade here (it actually opened in the early 60s.)   
> If you look it up on a map, you can easily figure out where Alain teaches.  
> \- I couldn't resist giving Sylvia a truly vile mid-century gelatin mold. This one is a real recipe from 1954.  
> \- Gone With the Wind was a major cultural phenomenon in 1939, and it was a huge hit in France as well (where Hans would've seen it.) It's still one of the top 10 highest grossing movies of all time there.
> 
> Thanks again!!!


	3. Wives and Partners

Hans squinted across the clouds, piled high and white to the edge of the world.

He had seen the earthbound version many times, when a cool, still night gathered clouds in the valleys of his native Alps. If one hiked high enough, and early enough, it was a grand sight to behold, but this…this was a view never meant for human eyes. Hans drank it in, like a god.

A small, soft sound made him briefly forfeit the privilege. Sylvia had fallen asleep shortly after takeoff, and now she stirred next to him, drawing up her shoulders, then flopping onto her other side. Now facing him, she pulled her cardigan to her chin, and was out again in seconds. How anyone could sleep so soundly, in a pressurized tube screaming through the sky at unholy speed, was beyond him.

He watched the gentle rise and fall of her breath beneath the grey cardigan. Her hair mussed, her lips parted, she seemed terribly vulnerable. That old peculiar pang struck him again, that desire to pull her close, to protect her, that same feeling that had gripped him the moment his flashlight found her in that bombed café…when she was at his mercy in the interrogation room, just another enemy of the state to wring dry, and instead became an enemy of the state, himself…yet again the morning he whisked her away from a Gestapo prison without fully understanding why, or what he planned to do next, only that he needed her close, needed her safe. Needed her, full stop.

He had been another man before, but that Hans Landa was a stranger to him now.

He turned back to the bright window, where the clouds were beginning to thin over the Rockies. It was only natural to revisit those memories now, considering they hadn’t boarded an airplane since the night they fled France. This flight was, essentially, a return to war.

There would be only so much he could do to keep his Sylvia safe, and besides, she was smart, tough, more than capable. But he was no longer the mighty Standartenführer, and the SS were a particular breed of ruthless. With the added fuel of wounded pride, an SS man was capable of anything.

He should know. He was once their rising star, and he had been proud of it. Surely Heppner had been as well. Was he also tormented by his past? Perhaps he wasn’t up to anything nefarious, and just wanted to quietly disappear, to hide away in shame. Hans couldn’t exactly blame him.

As they passed the mountains, the clouds abruptly cleared, and the vast brown desert of the American Southwest stretched out beneath them.

Nearly 10am Eastern time. Miri would be on her way to Trigonometry class, in her usual slacks and saddle shoes, tossing her black mane out of her face, and likely not thinking of him at all. Ah, teenagers.

Alain was teaching today. After, instead of cycling through the park, he’d simply walk to their apartment. Smithson would join him later from the subway, his jeans flour-dusted after a day in the Utivich family knish shop.

A British ex-spy and an American army vet, sleeping in his bed, and his Jewish wife asleep on his shoulder, as they flew across time zones to hunt another ex-Nazi. Life could be very strange, indeed.

A long, twisted scar across the desert began to widen. Somewhere, a child shouted.

“Wake up, angel.” He squeezed her shoulder. “We’re passing over the Grand Canyon.”

Lifting her head groggily, she leaned across his lap, and looked.

“Rather unusual view, isn’t it,” he said.

“I don’t think it’s the same from the nosebleeds,” she said, settling back in.

“Hey, now, these were very expensive seats.”

“Not for us, they weren’t.” She rested her head on his arm. “How much longer?”

“Two hours,” he answered, noticing a thin ribbon of highway bisecting the desert. What a strange, and enormous, country this was.

“It’s still bothering me,” she murmured.

He began to stroke her hair gently. “You mustn’t be afraid, angel. We’re in this together.”

“Not the mission,” she sighed. “Nor and Adam.”

Nora, Sylvia’s sister, and her husband Adam. To say Nora and Sylvia had a strained relationship was…sugarcoating.

“They can’t expect us to plan our lives around their desire to visit.”

“But I had to tell them we’re taking a vacation. She’s furious. I can’t blame her, seeing as we agreed they could stay with us months ago.”

“Well,” he said, dropping his voice carefully. “Once we find our man, they can reschedule. It can’t be helped.”

“Sure. But you know how she is.”

 _Indeed, and what a relief to strike that visit from the calendar,_ he thought.

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------

The CIA’s newest operatives had strict orders: get a cab from LAX, go immediately to their hotel in Hollywood, and check in with Preiss by telephone. But after a 6-hour flight, the siren call of a diner booth was too strong to ignore.

Sylvia stared out the window at the Sunset Boulevard traffic, drinking her coffee, and tapping her pen on the formica table.

Hans lowered the Arts section of the newspaper expectantly.

“Listen to this, Hans,” she finally said, turning back to her crossword puzzle. “Waxed cotton fabric. Starts with an E, a G in the middle, ends with N. Ring any bells?”

“Nothing comes to mind,” he said.

She scrunched her brow. “It’s a Wednesday! I never have trouble with the Wednesday puzzle.”

“My love, your intelligence isn’t measured by the whims of the Times crossword editor,” Hans soothed, sipping his espresso.

“I know, I just…” She rubbed her temples, a tension headache poised to strike. If flying was the luxurious way to travel, why did she feel like roadkill? “Hand me the front section, if you’re done.”

“I was saving it for last,” he chuckled, passing it over.

The pages were rumpled, out of order. She found the front page, and folded it right-side out.

_FILM COMPOSER HERBERT NEUMANN DEAD AT 61._

She blinked, stunned. Neumann had fled Germany as the Nazis took power, and became a Hollywood staple. He wrote songs for patriotic movie musicals during the war, not that she had been home to see them. The movies he’d written songs for since could be generously described as ‘fluff.’

“Hans, look.” She rotated the page towards him. “They’re saying suicide.”

Hans took his reading glasses out of his shirt pocket. “Neumann. My God.”

“You wanna know what really happened?” their waitress cut in, making them both jump.

She set their breakfasts down with a _clink._ “He cut his own throat. He was sitting in his car, some luxury coupe, and just bled out. Totally ruined the upholstery.”

“And um, where might you have heard that…” Hans’ eyes drifted to her nametag. “Colleen?”

The waitress shrugged. “My brother’s a cop. You need ketchup for those eggs, hon?”

Sylvia started. “Oh. Uh. No thanks.”

They watched her blonde ponytail swing as she returned to the kitchen.

“Okay then,” was all Sylvia could manage. They pulled their plates toward them.

Hans tucked into his kielbasa. “Rather theatrical way to go, isn’t it?”

“There was no note, and no obvious motive,” she said, sawing at her waffle distractedly. “That’s odd.”

Hans grunted in response.

“No one cuts their own throat, Hans. Have you ever heard of someone doing that?”

“It’s highly unusual.”

“And pretty unlikely.”

“I agree.”

She skimmed the article again. “It says he was ‘an outspoken critic of the Nazi regime.’”

Hans caught on. “Sylvia, there are many German expatriates living in Los Angeles, and all of them disavowed the regime. We have no reason to believe Neumann’s death is connected to Heppner.”

“Maybe not, but Heppner went rogue what, two weeks ago? We have no idea what he’s up to.”

They ate in silence for a moment.

“You may not know this,” Hans said. “But Neumann was quite a respected composer in Germany. He composed opera…well, operetta, I suppose. Hollywood was a step down, to be frank.”

Sylvia could always count on Hans’ snobbery. “I liked the songs in _Hollywood Hayride._ What was the one, Barn-raising Boogie?”

“Yes, I remember. A line of chorines wriggling in overalls. High art,” he sniffed.

“Well, regardless,” she said. “I think he might have been murdered.”

“I agree,” Hans said, chewing a bite of sausage. “But we must focus on our mission, which is finding Heppner. Until we have a compelling reason to connect the two, I’m afraid we must follow orders.”

She smirked over her coffee cup. “Since when do you have such a hard on for following orders?”

Hans let out a weary sigh but the twinkle in his eyes gave him away. “Let’s see what Preiss has in store for us first. I imagine we have a long day of interviews ahead of us.”

“Right.” The sun had crept higher, and shone warm on the red vinyl booth. Surely Preiss was getting antsy by now.

She finished her coffee, and read the article once more.

_Neumann penned songs for such musical films as Stars are Fallin’, The Lieutenant Wore Lipstick, They Can’t Ration Love, and Hollywood Hayride. His final film is the upcoming Warner Bros musical Bet on Brunettes, starring Frankie Voltaire, Vera-Ellen, and fellow German émigré, Bridget von Hammersmark._

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

“I’m going to smoke,” Greta Heppner muttered, digging in her housecoat pocket.

“Again?” asked Sylvia, with a sideways glance at Hans. He was dutifully taking notes on a pad, by the light of a desk lamp. Mrs. Heppner kept all of her blinds firmly closed.

“Interrogation wears me out.” She lit her second cigarette in less than an hour, inhaling deeply. The dark circles beneath her eyes were as overt as bruises.

“Mrs. Heppner, this isn’t an interrogation. I’m sorry to take up so much of your time, we just need as clear a picture as you can give us, so we can find your husband,” Sylvia said. “Now…can you think of places he liked to go? Bars, clubs?”

“The Cat and Fiddle. He love that shithole.” Greta took a thoughtful drag. “Hmm. He like that taco joint on Fountain. La Fiesta. But if you really want to find Fritz, go look up some whore’s skirt.”

Hans glanced up from his pad. “It sounds as though Fritz was not an exemplary husband to you.”

“He was not a husband to me. He was a shit. A shit-band. I don’t care if he comes back. Put him in jail, fine with me.”

She closed her eyes a moment, as if meditating, then reopened them. “Why don’t you ask me what the police ask me? Is CIA not police?”

“Well…not quite.” Sylvia had no idea how to answer that question. “What did they ask you?”

“Why you marry a Nazi’, they all say.”

“I…I suppose it’s a fair question, Mrs. Heppner.”

Greta snorted. “I could ask the same of you.”

Hans’ pen stopped.

“Oh, don’t have that surprised look,” Greta said, in that low rasp. “I know all about you, Frau Landa. We have much in common.”

“We do,” Sylvia said steadily. “My SOE cover name was Greta. I also went to live in a strange country, pretending to be someone I wasn’t.”

“Pretending? Ha!” Greta stubbed out the cigarette on the arm of her chair. “I never pretend. Fritz never pretend either. He just answer their questions. And now they are upset, for some reason. Pfft.”

“You understand what your husband is accused of, don’t you?” She shifted nervously.

“Accused of service to Germany in wartime, far as I can tell. We each fight for our countries, yes? Can you blame him for serving his country? The war is over now, it was years ago. Forget it, I say.”

“Mrs. Heppner,” Sylvia felt the words erupt from her mouth before she could stop them. “Would you consider yourself a member of the Nazi party?”

Hans’ hand clutched her arm. Too far, too fast. She felt the air leave the room.

Greta’s pale eyes widened. “I am loyal to my country, and proud of it. Not all of us are ashamed to be German, Herr Landa.”

Hans smiled sweetly. “Frau Heppner, I am not ashamed to be German. And that is because I am Austrian.” He stood, and Sylvia followed. “Thank you very much for your time, Frau Heppner.”

\---------------------------------------------------

“Very reserved. Kept to himself.”

“He was a hard worker, we all respected that.”

“He never talked about the war or politics or anything. Just kept his head down and got the job done.”

“I can’t imagine why he would just leave. His wife and all that. He loved this job, I’m sure he did.”

One by one, each of Fritz’s colleagues at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory came outside to meet with Hans, seated at the far end of a picnic table. He faced the building, so the splendor of the San Gabriel Mountains wouldn’t distract him.

It was unanimous: Fritz was cold, detached, focused on his work, kept to himself. All of this utterly useless to him. But one of the scientists had a specific recollection.

“We finished a project last summer, and he had us all meet for drinks at this bar, I think it was called The Cat and Fiddle. It was funny, he picked the place but he left early. Didn’t say nothin’, just slipped out.”

\-----------------------------------------------------

The Cat and Fiddle was bizarrely quiet at happy hour, and Sylvia found she had the entire bar to herself. She nursed a single boulevardier, and gaped at the ornate tin ceiling. It was impossible to tell if the bar was actually old, or a convincing facsimile. After all, Los Angeles was a very young city.

At last, Hans strode in, hat in hand, his hair swept back from his forehead, that mischievous smile. She couldn’t help but blush. Goddamn, her man was handsome.

“Pardon me, madame, is this seat taken?” he said, sliding onto the next stool.

“Aren’t you gonna ask what a girl like me is doing in a place like this? Because honestly…I don’t know.”

Hans took in the empty room, dark and dingy, a single unlit candle on each table. “It’s certainly not a place to be _seen._ ”

“It’s after five,” she said, watching the bartender in her peripheral vision. “It should be packed right now.”

“Whatever the reason, we’re going to do our part. The Cat and Fiddle have gained two regulars.”

The bartender approached. Hans brightened. “Ah, yes. I’d like a piña colada, please.”

A minute later, the blender started.

“I still feel like I biffed the interview with Mrs Heppner,” Sylvia groaned. “I had a kneejerk reaction.”

“You did a fine job. She clearly hasn’t the faintest idea where he is.”

“I know…but you’re better at this stuff,” she said, toying with one of the bar’s matchbooks, with a black cartoon cat on the cover. It was holding a fiddle, and winking one green eye.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Smithson Utivich stood on the Landas’ balcony, swirling the dregs of a whiskey on the rocks in his glass. A stiff breeze from the Hudson rustled the treetops.

“Come on to bed, Smitty.” Alain stood in the doorway in his pajama pants. “It’s getting late.”

“I always wanted one of these,” Smithson said, watching the not-so-distant lights of midtown wink in the distance. “I’m gonna come out here in the morning and greet the sun.”

“You have to go to bed first,” Alain snickered. “Come on, it’s getting cold.”

Reluctantly, Smithson went inside and placed his glass in the sink.

“You know, we have a perfectly good fire escape at home,” Alain said, heading to the bathroom.

“This place is ridiculous.” Smithson followed him. “Look at the size of the tub!”

“And not in the kitchen!” Alain said, wetting his toothbrush.

“I don’t mean to be rude or nothin’…” Smithson leaned on the doorway, his hooded eyes wearier than usual. “I love Hans and Sylvia, I really do. But—“

“But what?”

“Last I checked, a colonel’s pension doesn’t pay for a place like this.”

Alain deftly rolled the toothpaste tube from the bottom. “It’s the speaking engagements. Book rights. Movie rights. Use of likeness. Quite lucrative being a war hero, apparently.”

“Mmm. Yeah. Why didn’t we think of that, Alain?”

“Think of what, killing Hitler?” he said with a mouth full of toothbrush.

“We shoulda been part of Operation Kino,” Smithson said.

“Biggest mistake of our lives.”

“Sure fucked that up.”

Alain bent to spit in the sink, and Smithson headed into the bedroom to change. The high ceilings, the beautifully patterned hardwood floors, and that insanely comfortable bed. Like sleeping on a damn cloud. Nothing like their squeaky old bed across the park.

He stepped on something. It stuck to his foot.

A postcard. It had a photo of an outhouse, with the words ‘Home Sweet Home.’

It was from Aldo.

“Look what I just found on the floor,” he called to Alain. “It’s postmarked ’49.”

“Why was this _very charming_ postcard on their bedroom floor?” Alain wondered aloud.

“God, when was the last time we heard from Aldo fuckin’ Raine?” Smithson sat on the edge of the bed. “About that long, huh?”

“Sylvia said he’s not doing so well. Drinks a lot.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not surprised.” Smithson thought of the last time they’d seen Aldo, how pain and horror had carved into that once-boyish face.

Alain softly kissed his little man’s cheek. “Get ready for bed, you.”

“Alright, alright.” He stood again, pulling his t-shirt over his head, and dropping it in the hamper. He could feel Alain’s eyes watching him, and slowed down, just a little, like the old days in the Basterds’ camp. Luxurious stretching when the other was looking. Sneaking glances in the showers.

How lucky he was.

He and Aldo were the only Basterds who made it home. If it weighed heavily on his heart, it must be crushing the life out of Aldo’s.

\---------------------------------------------------------------

The front door. The side door. The living room windows. The terrace. The service entrance. The bathroom window. And finally, the bedroom windows. She checked each lock twice.

She was safe…for now.

Shivering in her silk nightgown, Bridget von Hammersmark slipped into bed, willing her heart to slow down, wishing to God she could turn off her brain.

_I’m next._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading. This chapter was a beast to write, not only because there's just so much going on in fic world, but with everything going on in the REAL world, my creative brain has been running at a solid 40%. I'm fine but I live in a city with a major COVID outbreak, and I am now unemployed and on lockdown. In theory, I can get loads of writing done...in theory. 
> 
> Commercial flight in the 1950s was still very new, very expensive, and considered an occasion worth dressing up for. Sylvia zonking out would've been a little embarrassing, like falling asleep at the theater.
> 
> Before anyone points it out, yes, I know I have a thing for breakfast scenes. I just love how unfiltered people are first thing in the morning. Also, I just really, really love breakfast.
> 
> I wrote a full list of wartime movie titles for Neumann's CV. Here are some of the throwaways:
> 
> Mess Hall Missus  
> Laugh Riot on the Eastern Front  
> Pitch That Tent!  
> G.I. Julie  
> Homefront Hoofers  
> Pinups on Parade  
> Khaki Cavalcade  
> Turn this Jeep Around  
> Put that in your Mess Kit!  
> Powdered Sunshine  
> Tail-End Tessie
> 
> It's the 50s, of course they're going to order cocktails. I see Hans being really into the goofy Tiki bar drinks with umbrellas and whatnot.
> 
> I hope everyone is safe and well, and riding this pandemic out as best you can. Wishing you all health, peace of mind, and plenty of toilet paper!!!


	4. It's a Dry Heat

The sun was astonishingly hot the next morning, baking the pavement until the air shimmered. By the time their handler joined them, Hans and Sylvia’s park bench was becoming unbearable.

“I can’t say this climate agrees with me,” Hans grumbled, pushing up his sleeves. “If this is the City of Angels, they must never stop molting.”

“At least it’s a dry heat. Humidity sure makes a difference,” Preiss said, sliding something across Sylvia’s lap. “Have a look at this, might perk you up.”

Sylvia opened the manila envelope, and shook out a photograph.

Of two men crossing a parking lot. One was Heppner.

“A sighting?” she squealed.

“How recent?” Hans demanded.

Preiss gave an infuriatingly coy smile. “Just yesterday, early afternoon, gas station at the corner of Fountain and Highland.”

They studied the photo in shocked silence for a moment.

“Who took this photograph?” Sylvia asked.

“Well, we got all our local agents on this case, Mrs. Landa. Eyes and ears all over the city.”

“Is there a reason we aren’t in touch with these agents?” Hans said. “We could’ve known of this sighting yesterday, rather than waiting nearly 24 hours for it. That’s not an efficient way to conduct an investigation, wouldn’t you agree?”

Whether he was pinkening from the sun or otherwise was impossible to tell. “No contact between agents. It may not be to your liking, but it’s for your safety. Besides, we had to wait for the photograph to develop. There’s no rushin’ that.”

“Even without the photograph, we would’ve had a known location,” Sylvia rebutted.

“Now, Mrs. Landa,” Preiss said patiently, hands in his trouser pockets. “If I recall, didn’t your Special Operations Executive have the same setup during the war? Keepin’ agents separate?”

“Yeah, they did,” she spat. “It mostly kept us from figuring out our new commander was a Nazi mole.”

The sound of a busker’s guitar floated across the lawn. Something Spanish, full of longing.

“Look, I wish I could speed things up for y’all. I really do, cross my heart. But I gotta do things the way the brass like ‘em, or at least dress em up purdy for the record.” He stood to leave. “If there’s anything specific you need, you just gimme a ring and I’ll do my damnedest for ya. The other agents may be eyes and ears, but you two? The brains.” He tapped his forehead meaningfully.

“Thanks,” said Sylvia, and they watched him stride away down the sloping path toward the lake.

“He seems to think highly of his men,” Hans scoffed, lighting a cigarette.

Sylvia began to fan herself with the envelope. “We gotta get that Fort Bliss file.”

“Agreed, but it’s well above our clearance.”

“Luckily, we have our own sources.”

He looked at her very seriously. “Tread lightly with Aldo, love.”

“I know.” She watched the enormous fan palms shudder in the breeze. “I just…the old Aldo is in there, somewhere. If we told him, he’d do anything to help us. You know he would.”

“Certainly. But reaching the old Aldo may mean stirring up memories the current Aldo is ill-equipped to handle.”

“Maybe this is what he needs, Hans. A mission.”

“Or perhaps he needs more time to heal. We can’t be the reason he relapses.”

She thought of the old Aldo, that shit-eating grin, those boyish twinkling eyes, the deep-chested laugh that echoed in the forest. Then she thought of the Aldo who came home.

Her husband’s hand, both gentle and commanding on her thigh, brought her back to the present.

“Can I help you, Standartenführer?” she teased.

“Don’t,” he said softly.

“Call you ‘Standartenführer’?”

Hans watched a pigeon pick at the yellow grass. “It’s not a word I wish to hear.”

“I’m sorry, Hans…” She lifted his hand, and pressed her lips to his knuckles. “Remembering again?”

She knew he had been. She felt him jerk awake beside her, the strangled cries of horror, listened as the panicked breathing slowly returned to normal, night after night. She never opened her eyes, never sat up, fought the urge to hold and soothe her husband. If he knew she had witnessed his terror, it would mortify Hans beyond any comfort she could give him.

And as she lay there, feigning sleep, another thought always asserted itself: _Good._

“A strong memory is occasionally a burden,” he said, a little too breezily. “Now, would a fair young thing like yourself wish to get out of the sun?”

She smiled, relieved to change the subject. “I know just the place.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans parked their rented Oldsmobile, and together they crossed the asphalt to the gas station. A neon sign announced GAS FOOD COFFEE.

The young man behind the counter glanced up as they entered but didn’t bother standing. His sleeves cuffed, and hair swooped back with pomade you could smell from the doorway, he was of the species known as a ‘greaser.’

“Can I help you?” he said listlessly.

“Good morning, young man.” Not one to waste time, Hans stepped right up and thrust the photograph in his face. “Did you happen to serve either of these men yesterday?”

That did it. The greaser was up in a heartbeat. “Yeah, yeah, they came in for donuts, around 1 I think. Couple’a freaks, if you ask me.”

Hans blinked. “And why do you say that?”

“Only a freak buys donuts and no coffee. And tries buying ‘em with a hundred dollar bill.”

“Who paid?” Sylvia asked.

“That one,” he replied, pointing to Heppner’s companion. “Short guy. Patchy beard. Had the fattest wad o’ bills I ever seen here. You don’t wanna walk around Hollywood at night with that kinda dough.”

Hans leaned across the counter. “Did he happen to have an accent?”

“Yeah, he did. Real strong. I dunno what though.”

“Did it sound like this?” Hans followed this with a string of jagged consonants.

The greaser’s eyes bulged.

“Or was it more in the vein of –“ Another, more ornate burst of language.

“The…second one.”

“Czech,” Hans smiled.

\---------------------------------------------------------

Hans chewed his cruller thoughtfully. “We’ll request the Czech SS files from West Berlin and compare the photos. It’ll be a tedious effort but not difficult.”

“I have such a bad feeling about this.” Sylvia set her coffee cup back on the dashboard. “You really think it’s another SS?”

“If my hunch is correct, this is much bigger and more complicated than we ever imagined.”

Sylvia took a bite of her Boston cream donut. “How many could there possibly be, though? They would’ve all had to get through immigration, background checks…”

Hans’ face became stone. “Sylvia…when the tide of war began to turn against the Reich, there was talk of escape among the upper ranks. I know of other SS who buried their wealth, or made plans to hide their party affiliations and emigrate. When defeat became inevitable, some of them began to pool their efforts, organizing escape routes to neutral countries. I recall South America being the popular choice, particularly Argentina. Who were, of course, sympathetic to their plight.”

Her stomach turned. “Oh my god.”

“I had thought we put an end to it when we ended the Reich, catching them off guard, so to speak. Now, I am not so sure.”

“Why would they come here? And especially Los Angeles?”

“Why wouldn’t they come to Los Angeles?” Hans said. “So many of their countrymen already had, albeit to escape them.”

Sylvia swallowed. “Neumann.”

“Yes.” Hans tapped his fingers softly on the steering wheel. “Neumann.”

“We’d better get a look at him soon. Today.”

“Indeed. If we wait to ask our keeper –“

“I’d rather ask forgiveness,” she said.

“My brave girl,” Hans said, with admiration. “But we must beware of those ‘eyes and ears’ all over the city. In fact, if they were watching this gas station yesterday, they’re almost certainly watching us right now.”

Sylvia scanned her peripheral vision, an old spy skill one never really lost. “10 o’clock. Black car. Not very imaginative of them.”

“Imagination is not the United States government’s strong suit.”

She chuckled. “Guess we’d better head straight back to the hotel, then. We’re calling Miri at 2 anyway.”

“Oh yes, 5pm eastern.” Hans crumpled the donut bag in his hands. “Tell me, darling, what little white lie shall we spin for our daughter this time?”

“Easy,” she said. “We took a walk in the park, chatted with a friend, went out for breakfast, and later on, we’re visiting someone who used to work in pictures.”

\---------------------------------------------------------

Over and over, the axe rose high and fell to the earth, cleaving the mighty hickory trunk into smaller and smaller pieces.

It was a shame to see it falter and sway, the tips of its leaves already turning to butter in the September sun, now destined for the burn pile before their full glory. But its branches had threatened Mrs. Raine’s powerlines, and those lines were never to be crossed.

Again and again, the heavy blade drove deep into the felled tree. Might as well get a head start on winter firewood, anyway. Might be one fewer day he needed to come down and chop trees in the snow.

When Aldo finally lodged the axe in a stump, his shirt was soaked with sweat, and coated in wood dust. He pulled it over his head, and let the sun pour over his skin. Just yonder, he caught his reflection in the parlor window.

Well, he wasn’t the chiseled specimen who went off to war back then, but who was anymore? He may be busted and paunchy, but at least he came back in one piece. It wasn’t nothin’.

“What’re you lookin’ at, you old fool,” came a familiar voice. Violet, his sister. “Narcissus at the pool.”

“I ain’t Narcissus,” Aldo grunted. “Just takin’ a rest before I pile up this wood.”

Violet was a small but sturdy woman, serious, with the same straw blond hair and the patented Raine dimple, not that it ever made an appearance these days. She hugged her elbows on the porch, surveying the carnage.

“That’s a hell of a lot of wood,” she remarked. “You know Mama. She’ll want that fire started soon as it dips in the 50s.”

Aldo turned his shirt inside out, and mopped his face. “She up now?”

“Up but not present. Not a good day.”

“I still wanna see her,” Aldo said, stepping up to the porch.

Violet shook her head. “She’s not there today, Aldo. She’ll get upset.”

“I’m her son. She wants to see me. Now let me past.”

She bit her lip, as if thinking hard.

“Violet, I wanna see my mama.”

With great effort, she relented. “At least put a damn shirt on. She don’t need to see you lookin’ all…”

“All what?” Aldo demanded. “Dirty? Sweaty? Like a goddamn animal? She birthed me, she can handle it.”

Violet stared at her shoes.

“What? I’m not drunk, Vi.”

“For once,” she said.

That stung.

Aldo pushed her aside and flung wide the screen door.

“Mama? You up?” he called, into the much darker interior of the house. A bare light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a miserable glow over the ancient floors, the grimy kitchen, the sagging furniture.

“Aldo?” came a weak voice from the corner.

Propped up in the rocking chair, half-buried under a quilt, his sweet Mama lay, her wiry gray hair fanning around her head like a halo in a painting. She was so pale, she was nearly translucent.

“It’s me, Mama,” he said, kneeling by the chair. “I just got done choppin’ up that old hickory that was gettin’ in the power lines. Now you’ll have some firewood for that first cold snap.”

Her eyes, once cornflower blue, seemed washed out, far away, fixed on something no one else could see.

“Mama, can you hear me?” Aldo tentatively pulled the edge of the quilt away, exposing the withered white arm. He gently grasped her tiny wrist.

That did it. She stiffened, her chest heaving as though she’d just ran laps. “Aldo? Aldo?”

“I’m right here, Mama! It’s me!”

She muttered something he couldn’t quite make out.

“What was that, Mama?”

“You’re upsettin’ her! Leave her alone!” Violet called from the doorway.

Aldo ignored her. “It’s me, Mama. I’m right here. I’ll stay as long as you want.”

“No, you won’t,” she said, infinite sadness in her threadbare voice. “You’re goin’ off to war.”

Ice gripped Aldo’s heart. “No, no, Mama, the war’s over. Years ago, I came home.”

“My only son. Aldo! My only son!” The chant crescendoed into a wail. “My only son! Don’t leave me to go to war!”

Tears pricked his eyes as he took his fragile mother by the shoulders. “Look at me, Mama! I came home! No more war!”

“You’re always goin’ off to war!” she cried. “You’re always leavin’ me!”

Then his sister’s arms were around his ribcage, prying him away from the tiny, thrashing figure beneath the quilt. As soon as Violet took over, shushing and soothing, the storm quieted.

Aldo’s arms hung ape-like at his sides. He was filled with indescribable shame.

Violet turned over her shoulder. “Go on home, you’ve done enough for one day.”

“But…the wood—“

“I’ll stack the goddamn wood,” she hissed, and turned back to their mother.

He didn’t mean to slam the screen door, he really didn’t but it screamed on its hinges and clapped shut against the dark house. Another careless misstep. Another unwanted intrusion.

He clambered into the cab of his truck, a hideous brute, a scarred and twisted distortion of a man, a terror to his own mother, a blot. Christ, he needed a drink.

\------------------------------------------------------------

“Good afternoon, I am Hans Landa of the Central Intelligence Agency, and this is my partner, Sylvia Leventhal,” Hans said to the skeptical young woman at the front desk. “We’d like to view a body.”

She stared blankly at his agency credentials. “Sir, we don’t allow any –“

“Oh wow, you actually came in!” An officer with a broad, sunshine-y face half-jogged around the front desk. “This is such an honor, gee whiz, you have no idea.”

“And you are?” Sylvia asked.

“Officer Ortega, Rick Ortega.” He shook each of their hands. “I’m your LAPD liaison.”

Hans and Sylvia looked at one another quizzically.

“Sorry, I guess nobody told you. I was assigned to your case. Okay, okay, your names came up and I asked for it,” Ortega said a little sheepishly. “It’s just, wow. It’s an honor, to work with you two.” He turned back to the receptionist. “This couple killed Hitler, by the way. No big whoop.”

She rolled her eyes.

“No one told us we were getting a _liaison,”_ Sylvia said, as they followed Ortega down the hallway.

“Of course you are! We’re all on the same team in this, right? Feds and cops. What can I do ya for?”

“We’d rather hoped we could visit the coroner,” Hans said. “Are we correct in assuming the remains of Herbert Neumann are on the premises?”

“They sure are.”

The coroner, an older man in thick, round glasses, showed them a series of photos taken the night of Neumann’s death, droning on about the depth and width of the incision. Something about the glossy black-and-white photographs made the blood seem pornographic.

“The angle of the incision is what concerns me,” Hans interrupted.

The coroner’s magnified eyes blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Hold still,” Hans commanded, and stood behind the coroner. “The knife was in Neumann’s right hand, correct? Bring your right hand up to your throat.”

The coroner, somewhat shakily, obeyed.

“Now, draw your hand across as if slitting your throat. Slowly. It is something of a pulling motion, is it not? Feel how your elbow draws your hand. The motion is limited.”

Sylvia watched proudly, a warmth coming to her cheeks. Seeing Hans’ brilliance at work always did something to her.

“Now, imagine I am in the back seat of the car.” Hans brought his hand to the coroner’s thick neck. “Already you see the elbow out, the angle necessarily brought forward and sloping to the side, as depicted in the photographs.”

Everyone in the room involuntarily gasped as he slashed his hand across the coroner’s throat.

“Do you see? It favors the right, and here, the serrated blade snags on the carotid artery, diverting the angle downward and beyond what could easily have been done by Neumann’s own hand,” he said, matter-of-factly. He released the coroner, whose eyes were now cartoonishly large.

“That’s a very interesting point,” he finally managed. “I will have to re-examine my findings.”

“Gee whiz, just. Wow,” Ortega beamed, as if he wanted to break into applause. “And here you thought it was an open-and-shut suicide case, huh.”

“Well, there was…something else about the body,” the coroner said.

The room went silent.

“What do you mean, ‘something else’?” Sylvia pried.

“I’ll show you.” The coroner led them down the hall to the morgue, hesitating for a moment before opening the drawer. “It’s rather disturbing, especially in light of…well, if this isn’t a case of self-mutilation. His poor family.”

He drew out the slab. Hans, Sylvia, and Ortega gathered around the cold remains of Herbert Neumann.

Right in the middle of his blue-tinged forehead was a freshly carved swastika.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle in, folks, it's only gonna get wilder from here!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I'll try to get myself on a regular writing schedule so you don't have to wait 2 weeks between chapters.
> 
> Part of the fun of writing post-war Hans is letting him just be a brilliant detective sometimes. There's that Tarantino interview where he says he'd like to write a mystery series about Hans solving murders on Nantucket. Well, this isn't *quite* that, but I totally get the impulse. He's a detective, a damn good detective!
> 
> I love LA. It's one of the favorite cities, and it's very gratifying to write about (especially right now, when my entire world has shrunk to my neighborhood.) That's MacArthur Park they're meeting Preiss in - yes, the same one the disco song is about.
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting! Hope everyone is safe and well!


	5. The Cow Jumped Over the Moon

“Do you think it’s an homage to the Basterds?” Sylvia stared into the neon canyon of Sunset Boulevard, as slow-moving traffic hemmed in their Oldsmobile on all sides. “Some vigilante or something, trying to copy Aldo’s trademark?”

“Or a mockery of him,” Hans said. “It depends on what our mystery killer found worthy of punishment.”

“Being German might have been enough, Hans. A lot of soldiers came back…messed up.”

“Yes, they did. But there’s a great deal we don’t know about Neumann, including his true loyalties.”

Her heart lurched. “You said yourself he was an enemy of the Reich!”

“A man may harbor very different sympathies behind his public face, or even change his opinions over time.” He paused. “You know that better than most.”

“Okay, fair,” she said. “But to move here when he did? And make so much noise against the Reich? You really think he could’ve secretly been a Nazi?”

“We can’t be sure. All we can do is investigate Neumann, and wait for the next victim.”

“The _next_ victim?” Sylvia gasped.

“That marking was a message, for someone,” Hans said, bringing the car to a stoplight. “But without context, the message is unclear. What’s that American phrase? If you fail, try, try again?”

“Yeah.” She fought back her horror. Oh god, she wanted very badly to be home in New York, in their perfect bed. She wanted to forget everything they’d learned in the past five days. She wanted Herbert Neumann’s mutilated corpse to leave her mind. But they had been handpicked for this mission. Too late to back down now.

“The timing of it is so odd,” she finally said. “Heppner disappears just before a swastika-carving killer strikes.”

“There are very few coincidences, angel.”

They rolled forward again, another maddeningly slow half-block.

“I must say,” Hans mused in a detached tone. “Our killer’s work lacks a certain…well, you saw it yourself.”

She turned to her husband. “Huh?”

“That was a very sloppy swastika. It speaks to Aldo’s talents, doesn’t it? His were _alive.”_

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

It had become a sort of game to Hans: anticipating exactly what she needed. A decade of loving her had made him a scholar of her body language, the foremost expert on her tone of voice, the subtle tensions of her jaw, her shoulder, her fidgets and sighs. She was fiercely independent and practical, not the kind of woman to make demands, and tended to keep her anxieties to herself. In other words, a puzzle.

If there was anything Hans and Sylvia had in common, it was their love of puzzles.

So when they returned to the hotel, and he went into action, she stopped dead in the doorway of the bathroom. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing you a hot bath,” he answered, that mischievous smirk playing around his lips. “Orange blossom or freesia salts?”

“Orange blossom, I guess,” she said, but he was already tipping the tin into the water. “Damnit, I’ve had enough of you…knowing me so well!”

Hans laughed, and stood. “Enjoy your bath.”

As always, she feigned annoyance at first, rolling her eyes at her ridiculous husband, but once she slipped into the suds, she soaked for an hour. When she came back into the bedroom, it was clear she had needed it.

Naturally. After a decade of study, he knew his girl.

She collapsed onto the bed, and melted into his embrace, her skin so soft and faintly scented, her lips hungry as they met his. He sensed vulnerability in the way she nuzzled into his chest, and gently guided her into a spooning position, nipping her neck, feeling all of her with his hands, and teasing her for several delicious minutes before entering her. It was a good angle for both of them, and she soon came to a gasping, shuddering climax in his arms.

They lay there for a few minutes in dizzy silence, Hans feeling rather triumphant. She had entered the suite tense, anxious, possibly regretting this whole adventure. Now, she lay in post-coital bliss, utterly relaxed and spoiled with pleasure.

He knew that in the final analysis, God, or whatever power waited in judgement, would not declare him a good man. But if nothing else, he loved her. His soul may be doomed, but his wife knew, every moment of every day, how deeply she was loved.

He was nearly asleep when she startled the hell out of him, saying, “I have to break the rule, Hans.”

The rule: no discussing the case after coming home for the night. It was a very good rule, they had thought. It had held for nearly a week.

“What for? We planned our day.”

“I know. But we have to call Aldo.” Her eyes met his. “I think after what we saw tonight…”

“Yes, that’s…of course.”

“We don’t have to tell him about the marking yet, but I really…I think we need him on this.”

“I agree,” he whispered.

“I’ll leave his number by the telephone, to remind us in the morning.” With effort, she stood, and padded over to the closet where she had stowed her suitcase.

Hans heard the locks open, the sounds of rustling, then silence.

“Goddamn son of a bitch!” she yelled.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

Morning light streamed through Herbert Neumann’s bedroom curtains, falling across the bed, still immaculately made from the day he died. It was clear what the maid was expected to tidy, and what she wasn’t allowed to touch – mainly his desk, which was piled ridiculously high with manuscript scores.

“He seems to discard the majority of his ideas,” Hans clucked, perusing music with his gloved hand. “Single pages, occasionally only a line or two, crossed out, but never thrown away. Peculiar.”

Sylvia knelt inside Neumann’s closet, going through his storage containers. It was mostly tax documents. “How much longer do you think you need over there?” she asked.

“We can be thorough. There’s no rush.”

“No, there is.” She stood to return a box to the closet shelf. It was an overwhelming thing, going through a dead person’s belongings. “Did you not see the looks we got from the homicide team coming in? I’d rather not overstay our welcome.”

“Our liaison assured us we have full permission to investigate, regardless of the homicide team’s opinion,” he replied, leafing through another score. “Harpsichord! How charming.”

“If it were the other way around, you’d throw a fit,” Sylvia muttered, returning to the closet. An expensive-looking evening jacket hung near the front.

A thought occurred to her. She plunged her hand into the right pocket, then in the left.

“Oh my god,” she said. “This is too easy.”

Hans rushed to her. “Yes?”

She held up a matchbook, with a black cartoon cat playing a fiddle.

\------------------------------------------------------------

“I convinced him to dress like a tourist. So he’s less recognizable, you know,” Sylvia said into the turquoise telephone, with a glance to the balcony, where Hans smoked a cigarette. “You wouldn’t believe it. A floral-print shirt. _Socks with sandals.”_

“Disgusting,” gushed Alain on the other end. “Tell me more.”

“Well, it’s pretty hot today, so he’s unbuttoned it halfway down.”

“Ooh, eat your heart out, Rock Hudson.”

Sylvia snorted. “We’re in Hollywood, after all.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Alain let his head fall back against the Leventhal/Landas’ overstuffed sofa. “While you’re sunning and mingling with the stars, I’m grading 200 essays on man’s inhumanity to man.”

“Oh, the inhumanity,” Sylvia quipped. “But don’t you have a break coming up?”

“In two weeks,” he said. “The non-denominational fall break. I’ve just gotta pull through to then.”

“How’s the place?” she asked. “I hope you used up that wine.”

“Oh, the Riesling? It was gone on night one. It’s been lovely, very quiet, having our coffee on the balcony and all that. Smitty’s at the shop today, so just me and all this grading I’m avoiding.” He went quiet for a moment. “As much as I love your apartment, to be honest, I’d rather have you two back.”

“Aw, I miss you guys, too.”

The sound of the sliding door. Her eyes met Hans’ as he stepped back inside.

She took a breath.

“Alain, you wouldn’t happen to have Aldo’s number, would you?”

Alain glanced down the hall into the bedroom, where the outhouse postcard still lay on the nightstand. “Of course. Any specific reason?”

“Not really, just wondering how he is,” she said, knowing damn well it wouldn’t fly.

“Uh huh.”

“What??”

“You need him for your mission, don’t you? For an SOE, you’re a terrible liar.”

“C’mon, Alain, you know it’s classified,” she pleaded. “Believe me, I’d bring you on board if I could. I’d love to have you and Smit here.”

Hans raised his eyebrows. Sylvia gestured at him to relax.

“Of course I understand,” Alain said. Then, more quietly, “So it _is_ Nazis, then?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” she said.

“It’s Nazis. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Smitty. You know him. If he hears there’s Nazis, he’ll be on the next train west with a sock full of pennies.”

“Don’t say anything to anyone, Alain! This is a national security issue!”

“I know, I know.” He sighed. “Let me fetch that very humorous postcard.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

“My eyes are up here,” Hans winked.

“Do you have to unbutton it _quite_ that far?” Sylvia laughed, taking another sip of her whiskey and soda. “With this air conditioning, you’ll catch your death of cold.”

They glanced around the Cat and the Fiddle, as quiet as usual, its little wooden tables and booths all empty, but for once, the candles had been lit.

“Seeing as we’re their only patrons, we could ask for a temperature adjustment,” he said.

As soon as the words left his mouth, were they no longer true. A middle-aged man in a schlubby hat, pulled low over his face, pushed through the door, and shuffled past the bar, heading to the very back booth. He sat slowly, as if in pain.

As the bartender went to take his order, Hans and Sylvia feigned nonchalance over their drinks.

“I didn’t get a good look at his face, did you?” she muttered.

“Too tall to be Heppner, too heavy to be our Czech,” he said.

“It’s way too dark to see him clearly, that candle isn’t doing shit.”

“He’s still breathing heavily. Either has a respiratory illness or just came in from a jog.”

“Or,” she observed. “He’s just very, very afraid of something.”

“Oh yes, could be a panic attack,” Hans said.

They sipped for a moment in silence, careful not to stare at the wheezing man.

“Do you think he saw our faces coming in?” she asked.

“Not a chance,” he answered.

“Then one of us should walk to the cigarette machine, and get a look at him.”

“If he sees _my_ face, he may very well faint,” Hans said.

Sylvia gave a sly smile. “If he recognizes you and panics, that’s all we need to know, isn’t it?”

Hans’ eyes twinkled. “I love you, angel.”

“I love you, too,” she whispered.

The creak of wood. Both watched the man stand from the booth, and lumber into the restroom. A click as the door swung shut behind him.

“I suppose that’s my cue,” Hans said, standing. “Suddenly, I have the urge to tinkle.”

“Be careful. And wash your hands,” she said, watching him stride to the very same door, labeled TOMCATS.

Goddamn, he was handsome. Even in that ridiculous outfit. The Bermuda shorts were hideous, but he certainly filled them out nicely.

She was musing happily on this thought when the TOMCATS door opened. The man hustled by her, panting heavily, banging against chairs on his way out.

Sylvia dug a wad of bills out of her purse, threw them on the bar, and ran.

The man was in his car by the time she reached the parking lot, and before she could buckle her safety belt, Hans was in the Oldsmobile’s driver’s seat. They tore out of the parking lot, followed him onto Sunset Boulevard, then onto a side street, staying a conservative distance behind. Around another block, then onto another side street. They watched the car turn up a gravel driveway, and disappear behind trees.

“That old trick. I’m positively nostalgic,” Hans chuckled, turning off the headlights. “Get comfortable, angel, we may be waiting a while.”

But the man was less patient, and the little blue car backed out of the gravel driveway minutes later. _Blam!_ Headlights on, and the car lurched ahead, tires squealing. Hans gunned the engine, tailing him down a road that wound up, up into the Hollywood foothills.

It was completely dark now. Sylvia’s stomach knotted as she realized how few and far between the houses were. At last, the blue car began to slow, perhaps assuming its pursuers had given up. Hans, no amateur at following a suspect, hung back, gave him plenty of space.

“Do you have any idea where we are,” she asked.

“I’m afraid not, but I understand it’s a very upscale neighborhood,” he replied.

As if to illustrate his point, they passed a mansion with elaborately monogrammed gates. Sylvia gaped out the window. “That doesn’t mean it’s safe.”

She could feel the thrum of the engine as they gained altitude, chugging up the steep hill. Fewer and fewer lights punctuated the darkness. They must be on the edge of a park. Or a cemetery. And still the little blue car zipped ahead, always vanishing around the next turn.

Suddenly, the trees fell away, revealing a scenic overlook. Sylvia couldn’t stifle a gasp as the glittering city of Los Angeles stretched out before them. Their car stopped.

But Hans didn’t notice by the view. He watched very intently as the blue car’s door opened, and the man emerged, leaving the engine to idle. He headed towards the overlook.

“Oh god, don’t jump,” Sylvia whispered.

But then he turned up the road, and stepped into the telephone booth.

“How convenient, he’s fool enough to use a public telephone. We’ll have Ortega trace the call,” Hans said.

“I don’t think a former SS would make that mistake,” she observed. “Did he speak to you at all?”

“Not a word. You should’ve seen his reaction, though. He went as white as an egg.”

She looked at him behind the wheel, poised like a predator keen for the kill. Then her eyes drifted to the shirt, and the gaudy floral print she could barely make out in the dark. She giggled.

“It was very funny,” Hans said.

“Are you sure he wasn't reacting to the sandals?” she teased.

Just then, they heard the door of the telephone booth slam shut, and when the man returned to his car, he peeled away at high speed. After several minutes navigating the backroads, they had to give up. It was a long, winding, somewhat motion-sickness-inducing drive back down to the city.

\--------------------------------------------------

Ortega reported back late the next morning. It was a Bel Air number, with an address attached: 1338 Condor Crest Drive.

“Talk about an upscale neighborhood,” Sylvia muttered, as she and Hans flipped through the property deeds on file at Los Angeles City Hall.

1334, 1336, 1338. Hans stopped flipping, and pulled the folder from the cabinet.

A 3-bedroom house with a pool, designed by a respected modern architect, built in 1949, on a lot of five acres.

Purchased in 1950 by Bridget Von Hammersmark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I'll admit, writing under lockdown is a slog, and it took me much longer to write this chapter than I expected. I hope it's worth the wait.
> 
> No historical notes this chapter, but I hope you all enjoy the visual of Hans' undercover fashion.
> 
> More soon! Thank you for your kudos and comments!!


	6. Angeles

_“Someone’s always comin’ around here, trailing some new kill…”_

_\- Elliott Smith_

Sylvia stifled a yawn. It was, what 3pm? Maybe 4? With no clock or windows in the cramped Warner Bros casting office holding room, it was impossible to know how much time had passed, but Sylvia was ready to call it: her fledgling acting career was dead in the water.

Not that it was ever really alive. Just a couple of half-assed Walgreens Photo headshots and a fully fabricated acting resume, enough to get her through the studio gates for an open extra call. Alongside at least a hundred other women. They filled every chair and available surface, neurotically checking their makeup, practicing their diction, staring into space. One young woman, fierce in her painful-looking bullet bra, did leg lifts in the doorway. Another curled up on the floor, head on her purse, snoring softly.

“Looks can be a real disadvantage, you know? In these background gigs, I mean,” the bottle blonde in the next chair rattled on. “I just stand there like a good girl and next thing I know, the director’s calling cut and telling me to step back. I mean, look at me! Is it my fault I pull focus?!”

Sylvia nodded absentmindedly, then realized that wasn’t the right answer. “No, no, not your fault.”

“They love me at the car shows, though,” the bottle blonde continued, in a baby voice Sylvia hoped was intentional. “Can’t get enough of me at the car shows. This one time, I was posing with a Cadillac, you know, one with the big fins, and just as I started to bend over—“

“Leslie Van Burton?” the audition monitor called.

The bottle blonde hopped to her feet. “Well, here goes nothin’. Good luck to ya!”

“Same to you,” Sylvia said, watching Leslie strut to the sign-in desk with a practiced wiggle. In seconds, another actress clambered up from the floor.

Sylvia smile at her. “Hey there, you don’t happen to know what time it is?”

“Not a clue,” she said flatly. “Too long to wait for a horse flick.”

Sylvia blinked. “It’s a western?”

“One of those dusty cowboy joints. Not my thing at all.”

Well, they weren’t Sylvia’s thing either, but that was beside the point. She just needed access to the studio, because somewhere out there, amid the busy anthill of backlots and soundstages, _Bet on Brunettes_ was still in production. Starring Bridget von Hammersmark.

“There weren’t many women in the Old West,” Sylvia blurted out. “I mean. They may not need a lot of women. If it’s historically accurate.”

The actress next to her groaned.

Sylvia stuffed her headshots back into their manila envelope. Hans was on his own mission, and wouldn’t be back at the hotel for hours yet. She could walk out that door, get herself a burger and shake somewhere. God, that sounded perfect. Then she could take a nap. Or call Alain.

But then, Bridget would leave the studio and drive right into danger…shit. What was she supposed to do, wait at the gates and flag down Bridget’s car?

Then, a realization: she was inside the Warner Bros gates _right now._

She stood, smoothed the voluminous skirt of her plaid shirtdress, and approached the audition monitor’s desk. “Excuse me, where is –“

“Ladies room is down the hall on the left,” the monitor said, not bothering to look up.

The click-clack of her heels followed her down the empty hall as she passed the ladies’, pausing at the bend. Offices, maybe conference rooms one way, with a bank of elevators on the other side. Turning towards the elevators, she saw what she was looking for.

She pushed through the glass door, slid on her sunglasses, and took a decisive right, towards what she presumed were the soundstages. As a New Yorker of over a 15 years, she knew how to walk with authority. She had nearly cleared the long office building when she heard the low hum of a motor. She ignored it.

“Ma’am? Ma’am??”

She turned her head cautiously.

An empty studio tram pulled up alongside her. “You wanna lift, lady?”

“Sure,” Sylvia smiled, climbing into the back. “I’m heading to…uhhh…” She snapped her fingers as if struggling to remember. “ _Bet on Brunettes._ Sorry, I’m new. I’ve gotta run some contracts over, I should’ve written it down. _”_

The tram driver guffawed. “You’re goin’ the long way. Good thing I caught ya.”

She clutched her bag as the tram whizzed across the studio, past a New York street scene, a jungle set under construction, a tour group, and finally, the enormous white soundstages, which she had absolutely no security clearance to visit. _Yep,_ she thought. _Still got it._

\-------------------------------------------------

_February 1944_

_It’s cold on the sixth floor this time of year. The men wear their greatcoats indoors. One can see their breath, even. Not so terrible today, but he keeps his hands in his pockets. They’re shaking._

_He gives a courteous nod to the guards on duty. They don’t question him, nor would they dare to, but his heart hammers anyway with the thrill of his secret._

_Down the corridor, he flinches from the smell. The acrid stench of human waste, of festering wounds, of pain, and fear. It hangs in the air, clings to the walls. He passes them without seeing, the unfortunate prisoners, unbothered by their conditions. It’s a skill. He’s quite proud of it._

_Only a few more steps, now. He slows, prolonging the anticipation, giddy with excitement._

_He massages these seconds into hours, ruminating on the absurdity of the situation. Why, only days ago he hadn’t the slightest idea she existed. Why did she fascinate him so? He had let so many other girls, prettier ones, go before firing squads, ship off to labor camps. What was so special about this one? Now that he had her, whatever would he do with her? There were so many possibilities. Her fate lay entirely in his hands, although, as her cell comes into view, it seems the other way around._

_She is curled tightly against the cold. Her hair is dirty, feral, her face hidden. She lies still on the bench, but the pace of her breathing proves she’s awake._

_The earth hurtles through space at such incredible speed Hans can hardly stay upright._

_He is flooded with a selfish desire. Her wild grey eyes must meet his. She will sit up. She will acknowledge him. For a second, he’s a child in the reptile house of the Vienna Zoo, churlishly demanding the cobra’s attentions._

_He lifts his boot to kick the bars._

\------------------------------------------------

_TAP TAP TAP._

Hans’ hand instinctively went to his pistol. By the time his fingers brushed the handle, he’d registered the figure at the passenger side window was Ortega.

He grudgingly leaned over to unlock the door.

“Sorry about that, didn’t mean to spook ya,” Ortega chirped, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as ever. The car bounced slightly as he took a seat, and closed the door.

Hans cringed as the nauseating smell of bad coffee filled the car.

“I know how these stakeouts get,” Ortega chirped. “A real slog. Want some company?”

“Not particularly, no,” said Hans, never taking his eyes off the Cat and Fiddle.

“Too bad, I gotta brief ya. Tried calling the hotel room, of course, it just rang and rang. Then I remembered. I bet you never got curbside service in Germany.”

Hans was not in the mood. “Well, then?”

“Aw, if I’d known you’d be a grumpy Gus, I’d’ve brought you coffee!” said the officer.

With a deep breath, Hans tamped down his annoyance. “Have you interrogated the bartender?”

“Clean as a whistle. Doesn’t know a thing.”

“A likely story,” Hans sniffed. What did these buffoons know about interrogation?

“We grilled him for hours. He was scared silly, agreed to keep us posted if they come back. Pointed at all the right pictures, too, including Heppner.”

Hans couldn’t restrain a tiny smile that his hunch had proved correct. “I see. And the license plate?”

“Stolen a month ago,” Ortega said. “We told every officer in southern California to keep an eye out.”

“With all due respect, I had hoped the LAPD could do better than ‘keeping an eye out.”

“Well, Colonel,” Ortega said, with one of his infuriating smiles. “We don’t have the resources to put every cop on this case. Believe me, I’d like to. Beats the usual grind.”

Hans scowled. “No sign of Heppner, I presume?”

“Not yet.”

“And Miss Von Hammersmark? I trust she’s protected?”

“We’ll do our best, Landa. I still think we should bring her in, but hey, you’ve been at this longer than I have. In the meantime we got eyes on her place 24/7.”

“And so do they,” Hans said. “At this moment, they don’t know we traced their call, or that we know anything of Bridget’s involvement. That’s an enormous advantage, which we lose as soon as we go to her door.”

“You don’t think she’s…”

“We don’t know that she isn’t.”

Both men stared at the Cat and Fiddle in silence for a moment.

“I hear that,” said Ortega doubtfully. “But my concern is they might move on her.”

“And if they do, Los Angeles’ finest will be there to stop them,” said Hans. “Correct?”

“Correct,” admitted Ortega, with another swig of his revolting brew.

“At this moment, my wife is at Warner Bros studios, intercepting Miss Von Hammersmark. She has a gift for this sort of thing, forming connections, extracting information without arousing suspicion.” His voice softened noticeably at the mention of Sylvia. “She won’t fail.”

“Aw. Married investigators. That’s pretty cute.”

“Presuming that’s all we have to discuss,” Hans sighed. “I’d prefer to finish this alone, if you don’t mind.”

“No can do, sir.” Ortega said. “I’m taking over this stakeout. You gotta go downtown.”

This finally tore Hans’ eyes from the Cat and Fiddle. “I beg your pardon?”

“We got another one.” Ortega mimed a forehead marking with his finger.

\---------------------------------------------------

It was Stage 7. Never would’ve guessed. Sylvia thanked the tram driver graciously, and pulled the door open.

Her eyes had barely adjusted to the darkness when a torrent of chorines in bright costumes streamed past her. She fell in. If nothing else, they might be heading to the dressing rooms….

Ah, no. The ladies’ room. Well, in that case, she hadn’t exactly lied to the audition monitor.

“Talk about a prima donna!” one of the dancers shrieked. “I haven’t seen a tantrum like that since my youngest was in diapers.”

“Ain’t the first time, sister,” another answered, fussing with her bobby pins. “He has a meltdown on every one of his pictures.”

Sylvia slipped into the nearest open stall. She wasn’t one for Hollywood gossip but, well…

“Every one! You’re kidding!”

“You’d think the director would change the line!”

“And give him what he wants? That’d just encourage him.”

“Imagine, though. Shutting down for the day over one line!”

“I’m glad he didn’t budge,” another piped up. “Actors shouldn’t boss directors around.”

“That ain’t no actor, honey. That’s _Frankie Voltaire_.”

Shut down for the day? Had she heard that right? Shit. _Shit._

“Well, I heard his real name is _Lipschitz,”_ groaned one of the dancers, to another peal of giggles.

“We should thank him, you know. We get to leave at 5.”

“Yeah, if you start driving now, you’ll be home in time for Lucy.”

“Some of us don’t live in Pasadena, Barb!”

The squeak of the door. The chorines were leaving.

Silence. Sylvia took a deep breath, and stepped out of the stall. Shit shit shit. It was too late for look for Bridget on the set. And there was a guard blocking the way to the dressing rooms.

“Excuse me,” she said, in her most exasperated-secretary tone. “Is Miss Hammersmark in her dressing room? I have some forms she needs to sign.” _Please don’t ask to see them, please don’t ask to see them…_

“Sorry, she just left for the day. You can leave those with the attendant…”

Sylvia didn’t hear the rest. She was already hustling back down the corridor, out into the blinding sun, oh god, which direction, where the hell was the parking lot. There were probably _several_ parking lots. How long ago had she left??

Someone was crossing the lot from another soundstage, keys in hand. That way. It was as good a guess as any.

Sylvia hurried, then as she saw the glittering tops of cars, began to run.

Just ahead - a slim woman in a grey dress and hat, flanked by what looked like security guards. Sylvia ran towards her.

“BRIDGET!” she yelled, out of breath.

The woman turned.

The terror on Bridget’s face would haunt her for years.

“Please, I’m trying to help you,” Sylvia panted, pathetically. “I’m with the CIA.”

It sounded ridiculous.

“N-no autographs, please,” Bridget stammered, and trotted briskly into the parking lot, her bodyguards close. They vanished among the sea of cars.

Sylvia slowly sank to the asphalt.

“Godfuckingdamnit!!” she snarled, at no one in particular.

\-------------------------------------------------

The photos were especially gruesome when laid out side by side across the sweetly-patterned hotel bedspread.

Francine Wagner Mills was 19 years old, a freshman at UCLA, and the daughter of Johannes Wagner, the lauded German expatriate poet.

Johannes Wagner had left Los Angeles in a hurry days before.

“So they went after his daughter,” Sylvia said, a tremor in her voice. It was impossible not to think of Miri.

“Sylvia.” Hans squeezed her shoulder. “I can handle this if you need to—“

“That’s two German expats they’ve targeted.” She gently shrugged off his hand. “They’re not going after Jews, they’re going after Germans. Revenge for not joining the party, maybe.”

“Something else of note, angel: there appear to be multiple assassins,” Hans said, indicating the crudely carved swastikas. “The markings are carved differently. See how they have dragged the blade back across the center here?”

“Heppner is left-handed,” she blurted out. “Not that that means he did it.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps not.”

An image flashed in Sylvia’s brain like an electric shock: Bridget’s beautiful features twisted in shock, marble pale, marked with that hated symbol.

“I have to call him, Hans. Tonight.” Her eyes met his solemnly. There was no need to specify who she meant.

\--------------------------------------------------

“Christ Almighty, Sylvia.” Aldo sat heavily at the kitchen table, head swimming, the ghostly sting of gin still in his throat. “That’s a hell of a thing to find out on a Saturday night.”

“Yeah, I…I know.” Her voice sounded small and tinny, all those hundreds of miles away. “I’m so sorry to dump this on you, but I had to tell you.”

“Yeah.”

A long silence.

“Are you there, Aldo?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” In body, anyway.

“Listen, you don’t have to do anything, okay? You can say no. You did more than enough in the war.”

“Aw, c’mon Syl.” He could see those penetrating eyes so clearly. That look had been seared into his retinas from the day she walked into his camp. No matter what you denied her, she’d find a way to get it. “You tell me there’s Nazis in the United States, slittin’ throats and misusin’ _my_ trademark, and expect me to just hang up and go to bed?”

“No, of course not.” She paused. “Please tell me you’re sober right now.”

“Alright, I’m sober.”

“Bullshit.”

“Cross my heart.” He pushed the sweaty gin glass away with the back of his hand.

“I worry about you, Aldo.”

“That’s nice.” He grinned. “To be worried about, long distance and all.”

“The government’s paying for it,” she said.

“Well, if that’s the case,” he said, propping his feet on the wooden chair opposite. “Why don’cha tell me about Los Angeles, the ‘City of Angels’? I never been west.”

“It’s gorgeous. Really. The mountains, the ocean, oh and the sunsets. We don’t have sunsets like that in New York.”

“Syl,” he said, almost cutting her off. “What’s the name of that guy you’re lookin’ for?”

“Heppner. Fritz Heppner.” She sounded excited. “He would’ve been research division.”

“Ya know, kid, I know a guy back at Fort Bliss who’s owed me a favor since way back. Reckon I could call it in.”

“Oh my god, Aldo. That would be incredible! Thank you!”

“You’re the one fightin’ em, least I can do is pull some strings.” He gazed out the front window, and noticed a magnificent full moon cresting the trees. “Now, you tell that ol’ Colonel of yours I said hello. Tell him I’m as sober as a church mouse.”

She sighed. “Aldo, please. Take your pills. I miss you.”

“Miss you too, kid.”

“Goodnight. And thanks.”

“’night, Syl.”

_Click._

Suddenly, that dingy old cabin didn’t seem so cramped. Was it the moonlight?

Aldo stood, his stiff joints popping as he moved to the front door, across the porch, and stood in the dirt driveway. The moon was full, and breathtakingly bright, turning every leaf and branch and blade of grass to silver. A sharp breeze promised autumn, stirring his blood, tousling his shaggy hair.

All the world seemed to shimmer with a kind of unreality. It made him feel wild. Young. Untethered.

It was a perfect night for a long drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think of Ortega as having big "youth pastor" energy.
> 
> Younger readers probably don’t remember the days of long distance calling but it was charged by the minute, and could be very expensive. In those days long distance calls were quieter and tended to have hissing/static in the background.  
> Additionally, because the call went through a switchboard operator, Aldo would’ve been told right away it was a long distance call from Los Angeles. A cool historical detail, just not important enough to put in the story.
> 
> Apologies for how long I made you all wait for this chapter. Quarantine life and creativity really don't mix for me. I have the next few chapters plotted out, though, so I'll try to crank them out quicker. Thanks so much for reading and commenting, it really means the world!!


	7. Constellations

Smithson paused with his hands in the dough, and very slowly circled his shoulder backwards. That old shooting pain again. Maybe he should see a doctor, make sure he wasn’t doing any real damage. Maybe there was a pill he could take. What he probably needed was time off, but he could hardly expect Brenda to take more hours, what with a three-week-old baby at home. She was barely back on her feet, and kitchen shifts were hard work. Today, he was kitchen AND counter. He would be mighty sore by closing time.

Not that he minded it, really. It gave him great pride to walk into Utivich Knish & Bakery, the gold lettering beginning to peel from the window his grandfather had painted decades ago. He loved putting on the apron, kneading and rolling out dough, chopping onions and potatoes and spinach for the fillings, molding the same fat knishes as his parents and grandparents before him. He could lose himself for hours in that kitchen, his hands buried in his family’s history, his head filled with poetry. Lately, he’d even been writing about the war. Enough time had now passed that the memories were beginning to step into the light, like timid animals.

With the academic year now in full swing, Smithson dreaded the dinner parties he would have to attend with Alain and his faculty friends. Oh, they were nice enough, and tried to involve him in conversation…”tried,” anyway. He didn’t know how to participate in their heady, labyrinthine discussions.

Alain never made him feel stupid. He had a way of explaining ideas, never dumbing them down, but with so much genuine enthusiasm you couldn’t help but follow along. All those students of his had no idea how lucky they were to be in his class.

Hell, was he jealous of a bunch of college kids? Maybe.

He swept the onion ends and peels from the cutting board into his hand, and as he turned to drop them in the garbage, he noticed someone at the counter. “How can I help you?”

Shaggy hair, wire-rim glasses, all black clothes reeking of smoke. A “beatnik.” They were becoming rampant in the Village. “Hey, uh, can I put a flyer on the board? It’s at Deep Deep down the street, this Friday.”

Smithson took the flyer. It was a poetry night.

“I write poems,” he blurted out. “Well. Sort of. I mean, they’re not great, but…”

“It’s an open mic, man,” the beatnik said with a toothy smile. “Just sign up for a slot, and read whatcha got.”

“Alright,” Smithson said. The beatnik departed, and the door jangled behind him.

Smithson looked back at the flyer, now smudged with onion juice from his hands. _9pm, Basement,_ it said. _NO SQUARES._

\------------------------------------------------------------------

When the SS personnel files arrived from Prague, bundled in a brown wrapper with an airmail stamp, Hans and Sylvia sat up with it long into the night.

The little bedside radio had just announced 2am when Hans suddenly thrust a photo into Sylvia’s view. “As Archimedes cried from his ancient bathtub, _eureka,”_ he triumphed.

“Oh, that’s our Czech, alright.” Sylvia took the file eagerly. “If you don’t run down the street naked, I might.”

“Another scientist,” Hans mentioned, shooting her a meaningful glance. “A chemical engineer, in fact. Also seems to have emigrated in haste at the end of the war. I’m sure I don’t need to spell it out for a puzzle enthusiast such as yourself.”

The implication was clear but she pushed it aside. It was too much to swallow. “Finally, we’ll have good news for Preiss in the morning.”

“Then we should start calling the nearby military bases, should we not?”

“Yeah, maybe.” She felt Hans’ gaze on her as she re-stacked the personnel files, sensing his disappointment.

Was it so terrible of her to need a little more evidence before writing off her own country?

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Lunchtime at the Brown Derby, with its entirely-industry usuals and un-starstruck waitstaff, was ideal for disappearing into a crowd. Bridget von Hammersmark, simply glamorous in a tailored cornflower-blue skirt suit and a chic feathered cap, made her way to the back unbothered, slunk into her favorite booth, began to light her cigarette, and froze.

A blonde woman in a green shirtdress cleared her throat.

“I’m sorry, miss, someone’s already sitting here,” Bridget snarled.

“I don’t mean to bother you, Miss Hammersmark,” Sylvia said in a careful tone. “It’s urgent.”

“You’re pretty goddamned persistent, aren’t you?” Bridget tucked her lighter back into her pocket. “I appreciate my fans but this is getting ridiculous.”

Sylvia perched on the edge of the leather seat. “I’m not a fan.”

Bridget raised her eyebrows.

“That’s not…I mean, I don’t want your autograph. I’m here to save your life.”

Bridget made a noise and tried to catch the waiter’s eye. “I’m going to count to ten.”

“No,” Sylvia whispered. “Listen. You can trust me. You know my husband. Or, knew.”

The actress laughed. “Oh, darling, I have no interest in husbands. Not yours, not mine, never again.”

“My husband is Hans Landa.”

Bridget stopped laughing. “Well, then. Correct you are. I did know your husband.” Bridget studied her for a moment, and took a long drag. “Sylvia, isn’t it? I’ve read about you.”

Sylvia squirmed. “What have you read?”

“You turned him into a hero, then the two of you turned the war. Impressive.”

“We had a lot of help. Listen, Bridget, I don’t mean to alarm you but you’re in serious danger. Did you receive a threatening telephone call last Tuesday?”

“How would you know that?”

The waiter’s arrival made them both jump. “Two old-fashioneds,” Bridget chirped brightly. “And a cottage cheese with pineapple. Thanks, Stanley.”

“You really are an actress,” Sylvia muttered.

“To answer your question, yes, I did receive a threatening telephone call. And it wasn’t the first.” Bridget lowered her voice. “I know it sounds insane, but I believe there is a Nazi underground operating in Hollywood.”

“Not insane. That’s why we’re here. Hans and I.”

“Hans,” Bridget said, and giggled again. “How funny, ‘Hans.’ He was ‘Standartenführer Landa’, if you valued your life.”

Their drinks arrived. The Brown Derby poured _strong._ Sylvia let the whiskey burn pleasantly in her throat for a moment. “The LAPD have been monitoring your house, Bridget. They won’t let anything happen to you. But we need your help getting to the bottom of this.”

Bridget tapped her cig into one of the Brown Derby’s signature ash trays. “And what could I possibly say to that? ‘No, I won’t help defeat the Nazis?’”

“You could,” Sylvia said.

“I did before.”

Sylvia blinked.

“Don’t give me that look. It’s true,” Bridget sighed. “British intelligence asked me to do undercover work. Pass German secrets along. Help the French resistance in Paris.”

“That’s exactly what happened to me,” Sylvia replied, stunned. “SOE. Wow.”

“But you said yes, and now look at us. Two paths diverged in a wood. The hero’s wife, and an actress in decline.”

“I wouldn’t say that—“

Bridget smiled as the waiter brought her lunch, a snowy mound of cottage cheese with a ring of pineapple. “I’m on the wrong side of 40, darling. And you may not read the trades, but I’m no Marlene Dietrich.”

Sylvia didn’t know what to say to that.

“So. You’d like to interview me, yes? Why don’t you come back to my place? It’s not exactly restaurant conversation,” Bridget said.

“Sure.” Sylvia’s heart pounded. Obviously, she’d get great info, but also…ride home with THE Bridget von Hammersmark? Who could pass that up?

\-----------------------------------------------------

Later that evening, a few thousand miles away, Smithson Utivich sweated profusely in a cramped, dingy basement.

“What is this place called again?” Alain whispered over the racket of some bearded youth’s bongos.

“Deep Deep,” Smithson replied. “It’s short for Deep Deep Dark Dark Deep Dark Hole.”

“What did I say about discussing our sex life in public?” Alain smirked. “Goodness, what a dump.”

“I told you, you didn’t have to come.” He rubbed his hands on his pants, still dusted with flour. “God, what I was I thinking. At least I signed up for an early slot.”

“We can leave if you want.” Alain nodded in the direction of the coat check. “I’m sure…Animal? Was that his name? Would happily fetch your blazer. Nice kid, Animal.”

The bongos finished. Tepid applause.

Smithson began to visibly quake.

“Thank you, Jeremy,” said the emcee. “Next up, some poetry from Smithson, uh, you…youtivick?”

Smithson stood uneasily.

“Go get ‘em, beloved!” Alain cheered.

The lights on the little “stage” were much brighter than they had seemed from the tables. Smithson shrank somewhat.

“Hi,” he croaked into the microphone. He unfolded the sheet of paper, thankful for the opportunity to hide from the crowd. “This is called, uh, _Ursa Major_. Or, The Bear.”

\---------------------------------------------------------------------

Hans breezed into the Cat and Fiddle once more, an apology on his lips, but stopped in the vestibule. Something was wrong.

The bar was totally empty. As in, no patrons _or_ bartender. And on a Friday night.

“If this is a surprise party, I’m going to be terribly upset,” he quipped aloud, stepping over to the bar. “Are we behind the scenes, perhaps?”

Hans peered into the back room. Dishes in the sink, a partially sliced lime on the cutting board. Empty.

Then he spied something behind the bar. Something motionless.

It was the bartender, face down in dark blood.

“So it was a surprise for me, after all. I loathe surprises,” Hans grunted. He stood over the body, and after quickly putting on gloves, turned the body over.

There was the swastika carved into the forehead, so fresh it still dripped. And on the bartender’s shirt, presumably in blood, _HEIL LANDA._

\--------------------------------------------------------------

“You were a revelation, Smitty,” Alain gushed in the elevator. “I heard sniffles. They were moved.”

“Are you sure they weren’t reacting to the dust?” Smithson chuckled. But his cheeks were pink with satisfaction. It felt good to share his poetry. So good, hell, he might even sign up again.

They thanked the elevator operator, and headed down the L-shaped hallway to Hans and Sylvia’s apartment, arm in arm.

“Oh my god, did we really leave the door unlocked?” Alain said.

“No, I locked it. I know I—“ Smithson pulled the door open.

The giddy flush left his cheeks in a hurry.

The apartment had been ransacked.

\------------------------------------------------------------

Sylvia leaned against Bridget’s terrace wall for a long time. The bright lights of Los Angeles glittered in a tidy grid, as far as the eye could see. As dearly as she loved New York, she had to admit, she was falling for this hot, smoggy city.

Footsteps behind her. It was Bridget, crossing the terrace.

Sylvia turned. “Hey, I think I’d better get going. I can’t thank you enough for your time, or for taking such detailed logs of the calls. It’s a huge help. Do you mind if I use your telephone? I’d better call my husband.”

“Of course.” Bridget hugged herself in the evening breeze. “Quite a view, isn’t it?”

“I can’t believe you have this whole place all to yourself.” Sylvia walked with Bridget back into the house, with its chic lines, modern furnishings, and enormous floor-to-ceiling windows.

“Well, there was a Mr. Von Hammersmark, once upon a time,” Bridget said, but before she could elaborate, the front doorbell rang.

“Who on earth,” Bridget muttered.

Two policemen stood on the porch. “Apologies, Miss Hammersmark,” one said. “We just thought we’d come in and ask a few questions.”

“I…sure, come in.” The actress stepped aside and let the policemen enter. They doffed their hats.

“Good evening, Mrs. Landa,” said the older one, with a nod. “I hope you don’t mind if we speak with Miss Hammersmark alone?”

Sylvia returned the nod, of course, she could slip out of the room. It was protocol, after all. But why on earth were they here? Had something happened?

She walked as nonchalantly as she could into the hallway, to the little table with a telephone. She dialed Preiss’s contact number.

It rang. And rang.

As did the hotel. She tried three times. No luck.

By the time she had looked up the CIA’s switchboard in her address book, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely dial the number. She had to be transferred multiple times to reach command.

“My handler isn’t answering, my husband isn’t answering,” she said with as much calm as she could muster. “And LAPD just came in to speak with Miss Hammersmark, and asked me to leave the room. Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”

The other end went so silent she briefly feared the call had dropped. “Mrs. Landa,” the man said. “I advise you to leave the house immediately.”

She must have misheard. “I’m sorry?”

“LAPD never dispatched officers to your location. Their visit is wholly unauthorized.”

“Are you sure?” she whispered. “Did Ortega not check in with you?”

“Who is Ortega? Your liaison is Lieutenant Charles Maher, and no, he didn’t authorize them.” A beat. “How much have you told this ‘Ortega’?”

Sylvia’s heart pounded so loudly her ears began to ring. “I…what do I do?”

“Hang up the telephone, and _run.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew!!! I've been bracing for this chapter. Now we can REALLY have fun.
> 
> If you're ever in New York, go to Yonah Schimmel Knishes on the Lower East Side. Trust me. I based Utivich's family knishery on it.
> 
> The legendary Brown Derby was, of course, a real restaurant in LA. It had multiple locations, in fact, and the Hollywood Brown Derby was THE place for the movie business elite to be seen. It closed in the 1980s.
> 
> I knew from the beginning that any story in the 50s would have to include a brush with beatniks. They just crack me up (especially contrasted with the Basterds' generation. Only a decade or so apart but what a difference that decade makes!)
> 
> Yes, I'm leaving you on multiple cliffhangers!! Thanks for reading, I'll update soon!


	8. I Keep My Eyes Wide Open All the Time

_“For you, I’d even try to turn the tide_

_Because you’re mine, I walk the line” – Johnny Cash_

_February, 1944_

_Hans glanced in the rearview mirror, where before her eyes had burned with hatred the entire drive from the prison. Now she slumped against the seat, her mouth half open as if struck mid-thought._

_He felt a giddy flush beneath his wool SS uniform: she was asleep. A good agent surely wouldn’t have dozed off unless she felt safe._

_Granted, it was the shallow, desperate sleep of a fugitive. But still. Barely an hour had passed since they left the prison, and this maddening young creature had already let down her guard._

_Would this, too, be easy for him?_

_He recalled one of his earliest memories: standing alone in the kitchen late one night, having silently replaced the ceramic lid of the cookie jar, gnawing at a merengue. The moon his only witness, struck dumb by his cunning. At four years of age, little Hans Landa had placed himself above the law. And his sweet, simple parents, out of their depth with this precocious child, would never have the upper hand again._

_From that point, Hans expected the seas to part before him. And with few exceptions, they did._

_A particular barn rolled by. They were nearing his country house. At any moment, she would jerk awake._

_She would demand to know what his intentions were. And truth be told, he wasn’t sure. But he was Hans Landa, and when he wanted something, who was to stop him? He had wrecked marriages out of sheer boredom, written death warrants for the sake of clearing his desk. Consequences were a mess for someone else to clean up._

_Now, he smuggled a Jewish spy into his country house…for the weekend? Longer? Presuming his plot of seduction was successful, what then? He wasn’t in the habit of bedding prisoners. What did his inferiors do, shoot them in the head after? Dreadful. And how would he know he was “done” with her, when he couldn’t parse exactly what he wanted from this enemy agent to begin with?_

_Well. After half-carrying her back to the car, he certainly wanted to touch her again._

_Hans almost laughed out loud at himself. He had bedded so many women, what was one more?_

_But she was nothing like the nightclub dancers who batted their lashes at anything in a German uniform. She was far more dangerous than social-climbing chorines, or bored captains’ wives, or snooty princesses getting their kicks en route to the throne. Truthfully, she scared the shit out of him._

_She made a soft sound as her head lolled to the other side. Even in her grimy, sweat-caked sheen, her hair matted and wild, she looked angelic._

_Yes, he had had countless women. This was not a woman to be had._

_He slowed the Mercedes further, extending this moment as long as possible, when there was no past, no morning after. Only the pale winter sun through the windshield, a quiet country road, and her life in his hands. When she trusted him enough to close her eyes._

\------------------------------------------------------

Sylvia shakily replaced the telephone receiver.

She heard the low murmurs of conversation from the next room, where police – or were they?? – questioned Bridget.

Unauthorized police.

Which now included Ortega…who knew everything.

Hans should be at the hotel by now. He isn’t answering the telephone.

The entire mission now compromised.

There was a vase of tulips on the little hall table. She studied the waxy petals until sheer willpower brought her thoughts into focus.

One word reverberated: _run._

Slipping down the hall, she hurried up the stairs, pausing at the landing. Her eyes adjusted in the dark, and – there. A doorway. Windows.

It was Bridget’s bedroom. She crept to the window, and peered down at the tiled patio just outside the living room. She discerned a vanity, covered with bottles and implements. Too small, too light. On the stool near the window sat an aloe plant, in a terra cotta pot.

“I’m sorry,” Sylvia whispered to the plant, and chucked it out the window.

_CRASH._

The murmurs stopped at once. Sylvia listened, and within seconds, she heard feet on carpet.

Bridget switched on the light.

“Turn it off!” Sylvia hissed. “We have to get out of here. Right now.”

“Are you out of your mind??”

“Possibly. But I called Washington. They’re not authorized to be here.”

Bridget’s mouth opened but no words escaped.

“What did you tell them?” Sylvia whispered. “I hope you didn’t tell them anything.”

“You saw their badges,” Bridget said quietly. “Are you saying I can’t trust the police?”

“This shouldn’t be a new concept for you, you’re German.” Sylvia picked up a bag from the vanity chair. “Are your keys in here?”

Bridget nodded, as Sylvia thrust the bag into her arms.

“Now, what’s the fastest way to the garage without going downstairs?”

“You can’t…I’m not…” Bridget sputtered. “This is my house.”

“Pretend it’s on fire,” Sylvia said.

“I’m not dressed.”

“Who cares?? You look fine.”

“I don’t have hose on.”

“Screw hose!”

“Is everything alright up there?” a male voice bellowed up the stairs. Both women froze.

“Yes, just a little personal issue,” Bridget called over her shoulder. “It’ll be just a minute.”

“Good save.” Sylvia took Bridget by the arm and steered her to the doorway. “Is that the bathroom at the end?”

The actress nodded.

“It has a window, right? I’m guessing the terrace is under it?”

“I don’t want to leave my house,” Bridget whimpered softly. She looked as if she might cry.

“You don’t have a choice, Bridget. I’m sorry.” Sylvia took her arm. “Let’s go.”

The women tiptoed across the hall, into the luxurious pink bathroom. Sylvia closed and latched the door.

“They heard that.” Sylvia stepped into the bathtub, and heaved the window open. “They’ll come up in a second. We have to hurry.”

Standing on the edge of the tub, she hoisted herself onto the windowsill. Yup, she had aged a bit since the last time. Should’ve stretched first. Oh well.

She carefully ducked her head through, and assessed their options.

“Listen, Bridget. I’m going down the drainpipe to the terrace. Come down right after me.” She took a breath. “Assuming it holds.”

“Assuming???”

“Just pretend you’re back in _Ersatz Lovers_ and your husband's about to catch you with Tyrone Power,” Sylvia whispered. “Or don’t you do your own stunts?”

“Miss Hammersmark?” called one of the cops from the hallway.

Bridget’s eyes bulged. She mouthed an obscenity.

“We’ll be right down!” Sylvia shouted. _Technically true_.

Gripping the window frame from the outside, she swung her other leg across the sill, and carefully transferred her weight to the drainpipe. It groaned in response.

 _BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!_ one of the cops pounded.

“Miss Hammersmark, open this door!”

“We are dealing with a feminine situation here!” Bridget screamed. “Would you like to see Mrs. Landa’s menstrual blood??”

 _Maybe a bit much,_ Sylvia thought, inching down the pipe, then dropping to the terrace. She landed a bit heavily on her right ankle, it would hurt in a minute.

Bridget’s face appeared in the open window. It was very pale.

“Come out with your hands up, both of you!” the cop thundered.

Oh god, if Bridget hesitated now –

But to Sylvia’s amazement, she climbed onto the sill, and delicately flung herself out. Her perfectly manicured hands scraped wall before catching herself on the pipe, and scooting to safety. The pounding on the door echoed as Bridget von Hammersmark, Hollywood’s second-most-beloved German, wriggled down the drainpipe to the terrace.

“Okay,” she gasped, shaking out her hands. “Oh god. This is happening.”

“You got your keys?”

Bridget patted her brassiere.

Sylvia began to scale the terrace balcony. “It’s only a few feet down, follow me.”

“My prickly pears,” Bridget sighed.

“It’s Nazis or cacti. Come on.”

The women dropped to the ground, moderately crunching Bridget’s prickly pears, and crept around the back into the garage, where they had parked her white BMW convertible hours earlier.

As soon as Bridget started the engine, they heard yelling outside.

“Go go go,” Sylvia urged, as the automatic garage door slowly yawned open.

She didn’t see what made Bridget floor the gas until they had lurched across the lawn to the street: the older policeman, on the front steps, gun drawn, fired, once, twice but the little BMW was already flying down Condor Crest Drive.

“HE SHOT AT US!” Bridget screeched. “HE WAS SHOOTING!”

“Don’t think, just drive!” Sylvia shouted back.

Luckily the roads were empty as Bridget sped toward the city, the little BMW skimming the endless mountain curves, only slowing as they approached the stately West Gate of Bel Air. Its wrought iron curlicues rose out of the mist like a dream.

“Breathe easy, smoke clean, with new Bel Aaaaair,” Sylvia sang the television jingle, as they passed through the gate into traffic on Sunset Boulevard. “I’m more of a Lucky Strike girl, myself.”

Bridget’s hands gripped the wheel like talons, and she was shaking from adrenaline.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, over and over. “Oh my god oh my god oh my god. What did we just do. Oh my god.”

“We survived,” Sylvia said, and started to laugh.

Bridget turned in horror. “You’re enjoying this!!”

“Maybe a little. Sorry.”

“You’re a maniac, is what you are.”

The light turned green, and Bridget robotically turned west on Sunset. “Where am I even going right now?”

“Well,” Sylvia said, rummaging in her bag for a cigarette. “First we have to ditch the car.”

Bridget stiffened. “Please tell me that was a joke.”

“Nope. They’ll be looking for it.” She lit her cig, and rolled down the window a crack. “Then we’ll head back to our hotel.”

“Right. Of course. To stay with your husband, Hans Landa.”

“Yes.”

“My life is a comedy.” Now it was Bridget’s turn to chuckle. “Why bother coming to America? The Nazis just followed me here!”

They slowed to a stop at another red light.

“Let’s ditch it at the Ralph’s up there,” Sylvia said. “To the side, behind the hedges. Then we can catch the bus.”

Bridget’s mouth once again opened, but, finding nothing useful to say, it closed again, and she obediently turned into the massive Ralph’s parking lot.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

_HEIL LANDA._

Hans stood over the bartender’s body, his nose wrinkled at the stench of fresh blood. A spot had seeped onto his glove. Shit.

Writing in blood was time consuming. Childish. The kerning was hideous. Surely no one would think it his style.

Still. It simply would not do.

Hans carefully relieved the corpse of its sodden shirt. He found a metal bowl in the kitchen, as well as some dry newspaper for kindling, and availed himself of a Cat and Fiddle matchbook from the bar.

The shirt burned surprisingly well for being soaked in blood. The lipids, perhaps. Human blood carried a fair amount of fats. And what else, besides plasma? Cellular matter, nutrients, oxygen, antibodies, and traces of metals. Man’s inheritance from the cosmos.

 _And back to the stars you go,_ thought Hans, wafting smoke out of the kitchen window.

He added the glove as well, and burned it all down to ash, which he washed down the drain.

Amazingly, not a soul had entered the bar. Giving the now bare-chested bartender a nod farewell, Hans departed the Cat and Fiddle (carefully wiping his prints from the door handle), returned to the Oldsmobile, and pulled onto the street.

In the cool of night, a mist had rolled across Los Angeles, casting halos around the streetlights. As he drove across an overpass, a figure stepped out of the mist. A short, stocky man.

Hans glanced in the rearview mirror, and brought the Oldsmobile to a stop. Within seconds, the man approached.

Hans rolled down the window, smiling. “If it isn’t Josef Krupička, born 21st of January, 1909 in Pilsen. Mechanic by trade, rose from foot soldier to the rank of Hauptsturmführer in under four years, not unimpressive for the son of a laborer. And recently sighted purchasing donuts with suspiciously large bills, if I’m not mistaken.”

Krupička scowled beneath his patchy beard. “You should not have done that, Landa.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Hans said. “Acquiring your SS file? I have such affection for paperwork.”

“Interfering with us,” the Czech said.

“Ah. You mean the finger painting I stumbled across at the Cat and Fiddle. If you have something to say, a telegram would be much more hygienic.”

The Czech stepped closer to the car. “Perhaps you misunderstood the message, Standartenführer.”

“And what message would that be, Krupička? Accusing me of murder?”

“That would be redundant of us,” sneered Krupička.

Hans let this slide. “Who is ‘us’, precisely?”

“Our organization. You are looking for Dr. Heppner. You are too late.”

Hans gave a little pout. “What a shame. Has he escaped to Argentina?”

“He has gone where his glory will not be dimmed. And there is a place for you as well, Landa. In fact, our Führer is quite a fan of yours.”

“Whoever he is, I assume he prefers my early work,” Hans said, and moved to roll up the window.

Krupička stopped the window with his hand. “I warn you, if you continue to investigate, there will be consequences.”

“Naturally,” Hans said. “But will you continue slicing up civilians with the Basterds’ trademark?”

“You have a choice, Standartenfuhrer.” Krupička’s breath was foul. “Join us, or go home to New York.”

Hans tilted his head in amazement. “Whatever leads you to believe I would join you?”

“Because,” the Czech said with utmost seriousness. “A German’s pride is never extinguished.”

“A fascinating observation, especially considering that neither of us is German,” Hans said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d very much like to go home to my wife.”

The Czech stepped back from the window. “The Jewess.”

“Indeed. There’s one Nuremberg Law we particularly like to break.”

Hans savored Krupička’s revulsion as he drove away.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Welcome to our humble hotel suite,” Sylvia announced, flicking on the lights. There were SS files, briefing reports, call logs, completed crosswords, and scribbled notes scattered across nearly every surface.

“I’ll just…spruce up a bit,” she said, clearing the sofa of papers. “This folds out into a bed, if you want.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I’ll just use it like that,” Bridget said softly, peering into the little kitchenette. “I might make some tea.”

“Great idea.” Sylvia brought a few glass bottles and set them in the sink. “Honestly, Bridget, there were no paparazzi. No one saw you.”

“You’d be paranoid, too, if you were in my place,” Bridget snipped. “Everything’s grist for the gossip mill.”

“All you did was walk into a hotel with me. Is it that scandalous?” Sylvia chuckled, pouring out the remains of a flat beer.

“Yes,” Bridget said with trepidation. “It is scandalous, if the columnists accuse you of dating and sleeping with women.”

“Why would they say that?” Sylvia asked.

The actress sank into a chair. “Probably because I date and sleep with women.”

“Oh.” Sylvia waved her hand. “In that case, let them talk.”

“I am under contract at Warner Bros! I have a morality clause!”

“So you have to sneak around and pretend to keep the studio happy? Is it really worth it?”

Bridget suddenly seemed very small, her arms folded and hair askew. “Yes. Lies and pretend. It’s either that, or bye bye acting career!”

Sylvia pondered whether Bridget wanted a hug or not, then reached for the kettle instead. “Let’s get that tea started, and I’ll finish making up your bed, okay?”

Bridget nodded, but her eyes were somewhere else, far away.

\--------------------------------

The charade of sleep ended fast when at last, came the sound of key in lock.

“It’s 2:30,” Sylvia blurted out, switching on the lamp. “Where the hell were you??”

“I was in the middle of an investigation,” Hans said, then trailed off as his eyes met Bridget’s.

Sylvia felt the air pressure of the room change.

“She has to stay with us tonight, Hans. I interviewed her, then some sketchy police came to the house. I called HQ, who said they weren’t authorized, according to the actual CIA liaison.” Sylvia rubbed her temples. “Who isn’t Ortega, by the way. So our entire mission is now compromised and we have to assume any LAPD we meet could be a Nazi. Preiss is gonna tear us apart tomorrow. How was your night?”

Hans processed this information for a second. “I’ve had better.” He turned to Bridget. “Ms. Hammersmark, believe me, you are utterly safe in our care.”

“It certainly sounds like it,” she droned sarcastically. “I love being dragged into a compromised mission against my will. Nearly as much as I love spending time with you, _Standartenführer.”_

“I haven’t seen you since…when was it?” Hans pondered. “Fall of 1943, if memory serves? Berlin?”

“Yes,” said Bridget, averting her eyes. “You tapped my phone, and still had the gall to ask for my number.”

Hans grinned. “Much has happened since then.”

“ _Much has happened_ since lunch,” Bridget mumbled, and pulled the blanket over her head.

Sylvia pulled her husband out onto the balcony, their last vestige of privacy. She pulled the door most of the way closed. “Hans, what the hell do we do?”

“We continue.”

“I think we’re out of our depth here!”

“I disagree,” Hans said, squeezing her hand. “We’ve merely peeked behind the curtain. There was another one tonight, Sylvia. The bartender.”

“They’re winning, Hans.”

“My dear girl. They are spoiled children, unable to give up their shiny toy. Grown men living in the past. The Reich will never return, I assure you. This is play acting.”

“Well, their ‘play acting’ has a body count,” she said, gazing past her husband at the Hollywood Hills, which seemed darker, more sinister now. “They infiltrated the police! I mean, who can we even trust now?”

“Shall we throw up our hands then?” Hans slipped his arms around her waist, and pulled her close. “Tell the government, ‘no thank you, we’ve had enough?’ Return to New York? Unplug the telephone and eat our pastries in blissful quiet?”

Sylvia gave a little snort. “You know damn well I couldn’t do that.”

“Precisely.” He lifted her chin, and kissed her.

“Hans.” She sighed. “Why did we take this mission?”

“Because that’s what we do, angel.”

“To think, I could have ended up with someone normal.”

“I shudder at the thought,” Hans whispered, and found her lips again in the dark.

All the evening’s adrenaline quickly morphed into desire. His hands gripped her bottom, pulling her close with such urgency, she couldn’t stifle a moan.

“I can’t stand you,” she breathed, unbuckling his trousers. He responded by pressing her back against the sliding door, and delivering a deeper, probing kiss so electric her knees nearly buckled. She pulled back. “How dare you turn me on at a time like this!”

“How dare you, indeed!” Bridget shouted from the living room.

With a sheepish smile, Sylvia closed the door the rest of the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew!! It's been a bit of a hiatus but here's the next chapter! Thanks to everyone who's kudos-ed or commented in the last few months, you all gave me much-needed motivation to keep writing.
> 
> A few historical notes:
> 
> \- Tyrone Power was, of course, a real actor. He passed in his mid-40s from a heart attack, while on set in 1958.  
> \- You can hear the actual Bel Air cigarettes jingle on youtube.   
> \- The specific Nuremberg Law Hans references is of course, the one forbidding sexual relations between Aryans and Jews. A bit tasteless for Hans but perfectly calibrated to disgust Krupička.  
> \- Also...yeah, pretty much every element of our bodies can be traced to stars. Hans wasn't just having a poetic moment. 
> 
> Thank you, again, for your patience and support. How soon will I have the next chapter? No idea, we're in a pandemic and no one is fully functional right now!! But I'll do my best!


	9. The Policy of Truth

Santa Monica Beach, 9:45am:

“Well, unfortunately, we have to implement some changes,” said Preiss, over the screeches of seagulls. “At the request of the LAPD, all inquiries going forward will need to go through agency HQ.”

Noting the stricken looks on Hans and Sylvia’s faces, Preiss softened. “Now, don’t sulk. D.C. agrees with me, no need to get mixed up in the police’s business.

Hans spoke first. “You can’t possibly be serious.”

“Everything goes through D.C. now??” Sylvia blinked in disbelief. “That’ll add hours, or days, to every step of the investigation!”

Preiss threw up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger, alright? That Ortega mix-up leaked a lot of classified information. Frankly, you two are lucky we aren’t cuttin’ you loose.”

“How the hell is Ortega our fault?” Sylvia all but shouted. “He presented himself as our liaison!!”

“Secretary Preiss, are you implying that we cannot, in fact, trust the Los Angeles police?” Hans said innocently.

“No, no, not what I’m saying at all.” Preiss was rapidly pinkening. “Ortega is their problem. As are these…homicides. You have to let the police do their work, Landa.”

“Such as chasing an actress from her mansion in the middle of the night?” Hans said.

All eyes flicked to Bridget, heavily bundled in a blanket and floppy hat several yards away, staring out to sea. Or asleep. Hard to tell with the sunglasses.

“Please tell me you’ve found someplace for her to go,” Preiss pleaded.

“Yes,” said Hans. “I’m driving her myself this afternoon.”

“I don’t understand.” Sylvia sat up on her beach chair. “I called D.C. from Bridget’s house, and they told me the cops were unauthorized. That’s why we ran.”

Preiss began to fidget with his tie. “Now, that may be, but that’s LAPD’s problem. Just focus on finding Heppner, alright? Find him and we can all go home. I’d like to make it home for Thanksgiving, and I’m sure you would, too…”

Preiss trailed off as he watched Hans produce an enormous calabash pipe from the pocket of his swim shorts, as well as a small leather tobacco pouch.

“Mr. Preiss,” Hans said calmly, packing the bowl of the pipe as if by muscle memory alone. “I take it you’ve seen the photos of these corpses, am I correct?”

“Well, yeah, you had the coroner send ‘em to me. Nasty stuff.”

“I’m sure you noticed that all three victims had a distinctive mutilation. Not only distinctive, but personal to us in a way that is impossible to ignore.”

“This isn’t Paris, Landa,” Preiss warned. “The war is over.”

“Additionally, all three victims were either German expatriates, or in one tragic example, the child of one,” Hans continued, attempting to light his pipe in the ocean breeze. Sylvia used her hand to shield the flame. “The killer’s appropriation of our dear friend Lieutenant Raine’s trademark is such an explicit perversion of its original intent that its usage here, in addition to the timing of a Third Reich scientist’s disappearance, implies a connection.”

“That’s circumstantial evidence,” said Preiss. “You couldn’t even get a warrant on that.”

“I’m not asking for a warrant.”

Sylvia shifted uncomfortably.

“I don’t know how you guys did things back in Nazi Germany, but here in the United States, you need conclusive evidence to pin a murder on somebody.” Preiss stood from his beach chair with a little groan. “Anyone can draw a swastika. Children can draw swastikas.”

“So a child committed three murders?” Sylvia asked.

“Hell, by your logic,” Preiss said. “Ex-Nazi with a violent history? It could be you, Landa.”

Hans puffed contentedly on his pipe. “I suppose it could.”

“Point is, LAPD don’t see a connection. Until they do, and until they ask for your help, I don’t wanna hear about you messin’ around crime scenes, you understand? Find Heppner. That’s what we hired you for, damnit. And next time, could you pick a rendezvous a little closer to the parking lot?”

Hans and Sylvia watched their handler huffily cross the beach, dress shoes skidding in the sand.

“The hell was that?” Sylvia said.

Hans smirked. “What a knuckle-rapping. I’ll certainly be a good boy now.”

“What are we supposed to do?? No police contact? Why are they making this harder for us?”

“Because the government has something to hide, angel. And we must be awfully close to finding it.”

Sylvia turned back to the water, where the waves tumbled over one another before dissolving into foam. “It gets worse the deeper we dig, Hans.”

“We could stop digging,” he said.

“But we won’t. We _can’t._ ”

“Of course not. But we proceed against the wishes of our government. And without its protection.”

She chuckled, adjusting the straps of her bathing suit. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They stood, and approached the motionless Bridget.

“How shall we wake Sleeping Beauty?” asked Hans.

“Ask pretty please,” Bridget said, lowering her shades. “Are we finished here? I don’t want to be recognized.”

“Almost.” Sylvia handed her a Polaroid camera. “For our daughter.”

Turning their backs to the Pacific, Hans and Sylvia gave the camera their sunniest smiles.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Hans stood in the upstairs bathroom, pistol still in hand, marveling at the pink tilework and matching tub, then at the sweeping view of the city from the open window.

Ah, of course. That must be where the women made their escape. He pulled it shut.

“Was that you?” Bridget called from her bedroom.

“I simply closed the window,” he returned, and his gaze landed on Bridget’s arsenal of toiletries, serums, setting gels, and sprays. If an actress’s greatest enemy is age, Frau von Hammersmark was armed to the teeth. Far beyond her daily routine back in Berlin.

Not so long ago, knowing everything about Bridget von Hammersmark had been his job, and one he took pleasure in; not so much to assuage the Reich’s suspicions, but for his own insatiable curiosity about the lives of others. He watched, he followed, he listened in, he took fastidious notes on everything from her inability to brush her teeth without gagging, to her late night snacking habits (liver pate.) He wondered now if she still dredged her crackers directly into the can.

Then, after a few mysterious appointments, her apartment went silent. Bridget had followed Marlene Dietrich across the Atlantic to Hollywood. And that was that.

After all this time, he still felt an almost paternal tenderness towards her.

Hans tucked the pistol into his waistband, and approached the doorway of Bridget’s bedroom. “The United States seem to have treated you well, recent events aside.”

Bridget glanced up from the suitcase she was busily packing. “Most of my furnishings were imported from Europe. I like to surround myself with beautiful things. I suppose that’s one thing we have in common, _Standartenführer.”_

He bristled. “Please, call me Hans.”

“Forgive me, old habits die hard.” Being on her turf had her glowing at full wattage again, every inch the movie star, even while folding her underthings. “Sorry to take so long, I usually have one of the maids do this.”

“Ah.” Hans smiled. “Sylvia won’t have a maid. She insists on doing things herself.”

“I’m sure she does.” Bridget moved on to her stocking drawer. “Why don’t you go down and check on my prickly pears? I’m afraid we crushed them on our way out last night.”

Prickly pears! How charming. A very Hollywood affectation but then, one could hardly have a cactus garden in Charlottenberg.

“We’ll check on your prickly pears before we leave,” he said. “First, why don’t you tell me about this friend you’ll be sheltering with?”

She laughed. “That is none of your business, Hans.”

Hans was not laughing. “It is very much my business, Fraulein. You are now connected to this mission whether you like it or not, and we know nothing whatsoever about this ‘Val.”

Bridget stopped folding. “My god, you can’t stand it, can you? You still feel entitled to every single detail of my life. It’s like I never left Berlin.”

“That was another time, Bridget,” he said quietly. “You know these are very different circumstances.”

“Are they now?” She cocked her lovely blonde head. “It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? Hans Landa, the great war hero. You can just erase everything that came before.”

“That’s not what I said.”

She laughed again, loud and hearty. “What a joke! You really got away with all of it! Every single thing you did. Now look at you. You won, Hans! You won and you’re still not satisfied, are you? You had to come out here and be the big brave hero, one more time!!”

A cold, sickening feeling began to spread through his gut. “We should hurry, Bridget. Finish packing.”

“I will take as much time as I please.” She paused. “You know, Hans, I think I’m really seeing you for the first time. I was so afraid of you! Petrified of you. You! I had nightmares about you, Hans, for years. Even after I moved here, I was terrified you’d somehow follow me. And well, here you are, standing in my bedroom. Nothing ever changes, does it?”

He swallowed. “Bridget…I don’t dare ask for your forgiveness, but at the moment, your safety is still in my hands. I need you to trust me.”

“Oh, don’t worry for my safety. Val is pretty tough.”

“Is he trustworthy?”

“ _She.”_ Bridget slammed the suitcase shut. “And that’s all you get to know about her.”

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

“ _This is a person-to-person call for Sylvia Leventhal-Landa, from New York. Do you accept all charges?”_

Sylvia rolled her eyes. “This is she, and yes.”

A faint hum, then a click.

“Sylvia! Love of my wretched life,” said Alain, seemingly from outer space.

“Person-to-person, Alain? Seriously? How are you still so afraid of Hans?”

“He can be very intimidating. How are you, darling?”

“I’m…fine,” she sighed, shoving a pile of police logs onto the coffee table. “Busy. But fine.”

“Great.” A prolonged silence.

“Is everything okay?” Sylvia asked.

“Well, I…” Another voice in the background – Utivich. Muffled noises.

“Hello??”

“Sylvia.” It was Utivich, loud and clear. “Listen. We’re calling from our apartment. Your place got ransacked while we were out last night.”

Like a kick in the gut. “Excuse me?”

“Yeah. We got back and, well…I don’t think they took anything, but they sure tore it apart. So we think it was more of a—“

“It wasn’t a burglary.”

“…Yeah.”

She stared out the glass door at the cloudless blue sky, willing herself to remain calm. “You didn’t call the police, did you?”

“We wanted to ask you first,” Alain said.

“You did the right thing.” Sylvia rubbed her temple. “Shit. Shit shit shit.”

“Tell me the truth,” Utivich said carefully. “Somebody’s after you, aren’t they.”

She scoffed. “You could say that.”

“It’s Nazis, isn’t it.”

“Smitty. You know I can’t give you details.”

“It’s definitely Nazis.”

“I didn’t confirm that!”

“You know what, Syl? You don’t have to fight ‘em alone.”

She sat straight up. “I have Hans, you know.”

“Not good enough. We’re comin’ out there.”

“NO.” Sylvia put the receiver close to her mouth. “No, no, no. You cannot just…come out here. This is…you can’t just join a CIA mission.”

“Do you remember who you’re talkin’ to? You really think we’re gonna hear about Nazis in America and just sit on our asses?”

“What about Alain’s class?”

“Non-religious autumn break,” Alain piped up from Utivich’s shoulder.

“Well….shit, we only have the couch here. I don’t think it folds out.”

“We slept on the ground in France.”

Sylvia sighed, hard. “I don’t know what to say.”

“They had someone break into your place,” Utivich said. “They got people in New York then, Syl. This is a coast-to-coast operation, whatever it is. ”

“You’re right. Oh god.”

“You know we didn’t go through what we did in Paris to let that shit happen again. At home.”

“I know….Shit. I guess I’ll see you soon?”

“We’ll leave tomorrow.” A little crackle of static. “Love you, Syl.”

“I also love you,” said Alain.

“What the hell do I say to Hans?” she asked.

“Tell him we love him, too.” Then with a click, the call ended.

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Sylvia was still buzzing from the call hours later, as Hans brought the Oldsmobile to a stop in front of a friendly-looking Craftsman house.

She watched him smoothly shift into reverse, his leather-gloved hands as sure as always as he parallel parked, adjusted the angle, then cut the engine.

“This is it,” announced Bridget, unnecessarily. “You don’t have to come in with me.”

“Oh, yes we do,” Hans said.

Through an unlocked wooden gate, and under a wooden trellis bursting with bougainvillea, they walked up the path to the porch, wide and inviting, where a porch swing creaked in the breeze.

The front door swung open before anyone could knock. A stunning Black woman, in wide, chic trousers and silk blouse briefly sized them up before setting eyes on Bridget. And keeping them there.

“Hello,” said Sylvia awkwardly.

“Well, well.” Val slid her hands into her pockets. “The princess descends from her throne to mingle with the commoners.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Bridget hissed. “Your behavior in Palm Springs was common by any definition.”

“Don’t get jealous, honey. Green doesn’t suit you.”

“And neither did she.”

Val chuckled. “Put the claws away, pussycat. I’m doing you a favor.”

“And I hope you aren’t expecting any in return.”

“Oh, that won’t be a problem. I get more of that than I know what to do with.”

Hans and Sylvia’s eyes met with an epiphany.

_So that’s how they know each other._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive!!! Forgive me for taking two months to update but, as you know, things are a bit intense for everyone right now. I should be able to update a bit more regularly from now on.
> 
> Chapter title is from a Depeche Mode song. I listened to them a LOT while writing Velvet Waltz, of course they were gonna creep in somewhere.
> 
> A person-to-person call was a kind of collect call for a specific individual, the idea being the call would only be connected if the requested person was available. Calling long distance was incredibly expensive in the 50s, but the government would be paying the bill for Hans and Sylvia's hotel room, anyway. 
> 
> Bougainvillea (those bright magenta flowers) are seemingly everywhere in southern California. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience. You can probably guess one of the plot points I'm setting up, but I guarantee you have no idea what's about to go down. Your reads, kudos, and comments are much appreciated!!


	10. The Night Shift

Hans cleared his throat. “Pardon me for interrupting, but perhaps, in the name of discretion, we could move this conflict inside?”

“Why don’t you leave us alone, Hans?” Bridget snapped without turning around.

“Nonsense.” Val beckoned them inside. “I wanna meet your new pals, Bridge.”

Hans reached for Bridget’s bags but she slapped his hand away, and stiffly dragged them up the steps. Hans and Sylvia followed her in.

Nothing could have prepared them for the interior. The living room was like a cross between an antique shop and an opium den, riotous with color and texture, with fabulous objects anywhere the eye landed. Ornate lamps hung on chains from the exposed ceiling beams, illuminating silk cushions, Persian rugs, and exotic fringed furniture, none of it matching. In every corner stood dress forms bearing gowns, capes, and suits in various stages of doneness, alongside reams of fabric stacked haphazardly against the wall. Through a wide doorway was the dining room, although the table was so covered in fabric and baskets of notions that Val probably wasn’t doing much dining at it. An antique sewing machine sat at one end, ready for action.

Sylvia became aware that her mouth was hanging open. 

“Holy shit,” she whispered to Hans.

“Pardon the mess,” Val called, already vanished into some other room. “I design costumes for the movies. Used to be Warner, now it’s whatever I can get. But I work out of home these days. You can ask Bridget about that.”

Bridget’s clenched jaw warned them against trying.

Hans was inspecting a shelf of knickknacks, one statuette in particular, when Val returned with a bottle and glasses. “Sherry, anyone?”

“I’m going to lie down,” Bridget said abruptly. “Don’t wake me for dinner.” She clomped up the stairs, dragging her suitcase behind her. It hit each step with an angry THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

“Bridget never did like sherry,” Hans commented.

“You know, we used to call her ‘London Bridge,’ back in the day,” said Val, taking the bottle to the patterned sofa. “Three drinks, and she was fallin’ down, fallin’ down.”

Hans joined her on the sofa. Sylvia claimed an enormous cushion on the floor, and gratefully took a glass of sherry from Val.

“I understand you two were lovers,” Hans said, a little too smoothly.

Val guffawed. “Oh yeah. Lovers. Girlfriends. Partners. The whole kit ‘n caboodle. But she’s….well.” Her eyes became far away. “The day I met her I thought, _that little blonde is gonna ruin my life._ And don’t you know it, she did.”

“So you worked with her at Warner Brothers?” Sylvia asked, gently steering the conversation back to matters at hand. “Did she have any enemies that you know of?”

“Besides me? Just kiddin’.” Val swirled her glass of sherry. “You two with the Feds, right?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Hans replied. “But this is an independent investigation.”

“Nothing you tell us will be used against you,” Sylvia said.

“In that case. Remember a few years back, when the U.S. government decided to flush all those dirty Communists out of Hollywood?”

“I recall Bridget was named,” Hans said. “She was found not guilty.”

“The first time, yeah. But it sure did jangle her nerves. We started seeing each other not long after that, and she talked about how much it scared her, how it all reminded her of Germany.”

If Hans reacted to this, it didn’t show.

“Anyway, there was a second round of hearings after that, this would’ve been about two years back. And this time, somebody put my name into the hat.”

“She couldn’t have,” Sylvia blurted out.

“No, Bridget didn’t rat on me. I believe that much. But they called her in. Now, she swears she didn’t testify against me, says she kept saying ‘no’. But all of a sudden, Warner Brothers rips up my contract. My name gets wiped from the credits of my latest picture. I have to slink home with my tail between my legs, and my whole office on my back.” Val gestured at the dress forms and costumery. “It happened to a lot of us, you know. Blacklisted. I still get work, thank God. But now ‘Mary Pearl’ gets all the credit. So, yes, whatever she said in that hearing, I’m sure others got burned by her. Not that any of ‘em would break in and shoot her, but who knows. You fight so hard to get into this business, it hurts like hell to be kicked out.”

Val nodded at Hans. “I noticed you admiring my Oscar over there.”

“Oh, yes. For _Winter’s Passion._ Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Val said flatly. “My first and last.”

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Hans fiddled with the Oldsmobile’s radio knob, deftly avoiding any whiff of rock ‘n roll, as Sylvia stared out the window in dazed silence.

Bridget could be irritating, yes. Maybe even neurotic. But a snitch? And to snitch on her own girlfriend? It seemed shockingly sinister, too calculating for Bridget, a privileged citizen of Nazi Germany who nevertheless hated it enough to flee. Maybe she had been railroaded, worn down by high-pressure prosecutors. Lawyers were good at that. Maybe she gave wishy-washy answers that didn’t hold up. It wasn’t as if those HUAC hearings were legitimate.

Hans settled on something polka-esque as they headed north. The sun was low, turning the Hollywood Hills, and that iconic white-lettered sign, to glittering gold.

Sylvia remembered a story she had heard, about a failed actress who took her own life jumping from that sign. The movie business must be potent stuff, she thought. She was glad she had no taste for it.

At Highland Ave, northbound traffic was backed up to a degree that had her craning her neck for an accident. “What the hell?”

“There must be a concert at the famous Hollywood Bowl,” Hans said. “Ah, what a splendid evening that would be.”

But there would be no concert under the stars for the Landas. Hans veered in the opposite direction, along a sinuous avenue which grew steep as they wound higher and higher into the hills, the engine groaning against the incline.

Suddenly, Sylvia remembered what she still had to tell Hans. Oh god.

“Hans,” she floated.

“Yes?”

“How would you feel about…um.” She trailed off as the car came to a stop. They were already here. Shit. No use bringing up Alain and Smitty now.

“How would I feel about…?” Hans was impatient.

“About…waiting to interview Wagner,” she said, carefully switching gears. “Didn’t he just bury his daughter today?”

“The funeral was four hours ago.”

“Are you sure he’s alone?”

“There is only one car in the driveway.”

So there was.

“I dunno, Hans,” she said.

“Angel. This man just laid his child to rest. He will be keen on justice, I assure you.”

Francine Wagner Mills was exactly Miri’s age.

Sylvia sighed. “Maybe. I’ll stay in the car. I need to finish going over these police logs anyway.”

“Suit yourself.” Hans stepped out. “I will return before dark.”

Sylvia nodded, and watched him cross the street to Johannes Wagner’s home. It was deceptively modest from the street, as it was perched on the edge of a cliff, with most of its windows saved for the side facing the view.

\----------------------------------------------

A very tired-looking middle-aged gentleman came to the door. He stared in disbelief.

“My god,” he sputtered. “You’re…you’re…”

“Yes, I am,” Hans smiled. “Hans Landa, at your service. I’m here to find justice for your daughter. Do you have a moment?”

“But I’ve already spoken to the police!”

“I’m not the police,” Hans said. “Frankly, I’m much, much better.”

\---------------------------------------------

The sunlight went faster than Sylvia expected, probably blocked by these damned hills, she thought. It didn’t help that so much of the LAPD’s logs were scratched in pencil, barely dark enough to read by a lamp.

And worse, a very crucial entry, an hour before the officers arrived at Bridget’s home, appeared to have been erased, and written over.

Dusk was giving way to dark, and a single orange streetlamp, just up the road, was her only source of light. Holding the page up to the windshield didn’t help.

She glanced back at Wagner’s house. It hadn’t actually been that long. Hans wouldn’t return for some time, yet.

Sighing hard, she opened the passenger side door, and stepped onto the sidewalk. Just a quick look under the streetlamp, and she’d pop right back into the car.

She crossed in front of the Oldsmobile and into the road, which was completely empty. Silent. She could very faintly hear an orchestra – the Hollywood Bowl.

Another sound turned her head.

Something clamped on her throat. Jerked backwards.

A man, a strong man, choking. Crushing her windpipe.

Rope.

She kicked. Scrambled. Panicked.

_Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe._

Her SOE training kicked in. She jerked her head to the side, allowing her a feeble breath. She fought, grabbed at his meaty hands. Slapped, pulled.

He was dragging her backwards, towards the bushes. Out of the light.

She kicked at his shins, hard. Again.

He grunted and pulled the rope tighter.

Her head began to pound. She grabbed hold of his pinkies, and yanked.

That did it. His fists sprang open, allowing her to spin and facing him, uppercut him in the chin.

The man, heavyset and dressed in black, staggered back, then lunged at her again.

She was ready. With one forceful kick, she knocked him off balance. The attacker fell backwards, knocking out a section of wooden fence, and tumbled out of sight. And kept falling.

Suddenly quiet again. She could clearly hear the orchestra now.

Panting with adrenaline, Sylvia cautiously approached the newly-flattened fence. Darkness, some scrubby trees, and a sheer drop. Beyond, the wide and glittering grid of the city of Los Angeles. Her assailant had gone over the cliff.

“Oh shit,” she gasped, hands on her knees, coughing and sputtering. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

When Hans emerged from the house and saw Sylvia leaning on the hood, he broke into a sprint.

“You’re shaking.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “What happened?”

“I…I just killed someone,” she squeaked, and motioned to her neck.

\----------------------------------------------------

Hans’ flashlight swept the dark, wooded bottom of the ravine. Sylvia smelled the sharp metallic tang of blood before the flashlight’s beam found it.

He was dead, alright. Very, very dead. And still grasping his rope.

She recoiled from the gore, and tried to gag casually into the sleeve of her cardigan. “Oh my god. Oh my god. Hans. Oh god. I can’t look at that.”

“As the saying goes, ‘no use crying over spilt milk.’” Hans touched her back comfortingly. “Or in this case, spilt vital organs.”

“I’m not crying.” Another thought sliced through her horror – Hans had done this _many_ times. So many times, it seemed to mean _nothing at all_.

“And there’s no reason you should, angel. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

Now he was rifling through the corpse’s pockets, flashlight in his teeth, as unbothered as a clerk searching a filing cabinet. A grunt of satisfaction.

He handed her a leather wallet. “This should be of interest.”

“Well, now I feel like a thief,” she said, but opened it with shaking hands. A few small bills. And a drivers’ license, with all the trimmings. “Greg Tony? That can’t be real.”

Hans snorted. “Pleased to meet you, ‘Gregory Anthony.’”

“That address can’t be real, either.”

“We should go there, regardless. There may be a reason it was chosen.” He pressed his lips to her now rumpled hair. “My wildcat of a wife.”

“Shouldn’t we….” She gestured in the general direction of the corpse, unwilling to look again. “Are we just leaving it?”

But Hans was already steering her back to the car, back to streetlights and civilization, her assailant’s pulverized remains burned into her brain.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------

_SAL CALIENTE’S,_ read the enormous neon sign. Beneath, in cursive, _GENTLEMEN’S LOUNGE – STEAK – DRINKS – GIRLS._

“A reputable establishment, I’m sure,” Hans chuckled.

“I guess it’s possible someone lives upstairs,” Sylvia said, entering the revolving door.

They were instantly greeted by smoke, both fresh and baked into the walls. Across the sea of tables, a curvy brunette stripped to her panties wiggled in the spotlight, bumping her hips to the band’s tawdry beat. Scattered wolf whistles.

Sylvia’s eyes popped.

“Two this evening?” the host asked.

“Yes,” Hans smiled. “And we’d prefer a table ringside, if at all possible. We like to sit close.”

The host smirked. “Who doesn’t?”

Ringside was right, they were practically onstage with her. They took their seats as the brunette finished her act, nipple tassels twirling. The bar erupted.

“Don’t be rude to the lady,” Hans gently scolded, joining the applause. “She may be a very important source.”

Sylvia clapped mechanically. “What exactly is our plan here? We can’t talk to anyone while—“

Suddenly, another young woman appeared at their table in a cowgirl getup, a midriff baring vest and tiny, fringed shorts. She leaned seductively on the back of Hans’ chair. “So glad you two could make it tonight. I bet y’all know how to have fun.”

“Yeah,” Sylvia said, still dazed.

The stripper laughed. “Why don’t the three of us go somewhere private, and get better acquainted?”

Oh. _Oh. Of course._ Private dances. “We should split up,” Sylvia said, meeting Hans’ eyes. Their special, shared understanding. “I mean, we’ll get our own, and compare stories later.”

“Ooh, sounds delicious,” cooed the cowgirl. Sylvia exercised great restraint as she watched her husband rise from the table and slip his arm around the stripper’s waist. He smiled at her mischievously.

“Be back soon, angel. Have fun.” And they were gone in an instant.

Of course, _have fun_ meant ‘get another employee alone.’ They were here to work. But it still stung a little.

She turned to survey the crowd. About half full. And all men. Other dancers, obviously plying for private dances, wandered the tables. None looked at her.

How, exactly, did a woman get a stripper’s attention? Was it like hailing a taxi? She _was_ a New Yorker, after all…

Or, she could go sit at the bar.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

The cowgirl ushered Hans into a small private booth, all velvet and surrounded by curtains, lit in a raunchy red.

Hans’ head swam as he imagined the bodily fluids soaked and calcified in those cushions. “Thank you, miss…”

“Bambi.”

“Of course. Bambi.”

He slipped delicately into the booth, as Bambi hopped onto the tiny table. “I’m sure a gentleman like you knows the rules but just in case you need a refresher: no touching, no photography, keep your hands where I can see ‘em, and please remain seated for the duration of the ride. $5 for topless, $10 for the whole shebang. I don’t do extras. Got it?”

Was that gum in her mouth? “I hope conversation is on that menu.”

“Always.” The band outside began the next number, and Bambi began to sway. “They say I got the gift of gab.”

“Then I’m sure you won’t mind answering a few questions.”

Bambi smirked, but retained focus, dipping and grinding in her fringey little shorts. “Is that what you want, big boy?”

“Desperately,” Hans smiled. “You see, I’m looking for someone. And I believe he may be a regular customer.”

“Oh?” Bambi unfastened her cow-spotted vest. “An old friend?”

“You could say that. More of a colleague, in the old country.”

Bambi was clearly not listening. She dropped her top into the booth. “They got ta-tas like these in the old country?”

“My old country was Germany,” Hans said.

Bambi raised an eyebrow but kept dancing. “You don’t say.”

“As you can imagine, I’ve been terribly lonely here,” Hans continued sweetly. “My wife, she is lovely, but she doesn’t speak the language. Or cook German food.”

“Let me guess,” Bambi purred, getting onto all fours. “A great big kielbasa?”

Hans attempted to maintain eye contact, no easy feat. “When I heard this colleague of mine frequented your establishment, I got a little excited. What I wouldn’t give to reminisce with him. Perhaps you’ve seen him?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Hans withdrew a hand from the table.

“Ah ah.” Bambi playfully slapped his wrist. “Not in here.”

“I was going to show you his photograph.”

Bambi stood up, annoyed. “Do you want a dance or not?”

“In a moment.” Hans reached into his jacket, and produced the photo of Heppner, now getting creased and worn. “This man. It’s an old photo, he’s balder now. He may be in the company of another man, a Czech, with a beard.”

That did it. Bambi studied the photo. “Yeah, yeah they’re in here all the time. Usually a whole table of guys.” She popped her gum. “Gee, next time I’ll give him your name.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Hans said, tucking the photo back into his jacket. “I’d like to surprise him. When do they typically visit?”

“Oh, all sorts of days.” She was attempting to get back into her dance but not quite finding the rhythm.

“Then I shall have to become a regular.” Hans stood, and pressed a large bill into Bambi’s hand. “Thank you very much for your company.”

She blinked at it in confusion, still mostly dressed, as Hans left the booth.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

“You lonesome, sweetheart?”

Sylvia had gotten settled in at the bar, maybe too settled in. She sheepishly looked up from her crossword. “Oh, sure. Hi. Sorry, I’m…”

“You’re doing a puzzle at a striptease club,” the dancer said gently. She was a petite blonde, with enormous fake lashes and a bejeweled bra. “Did your man get a dance without you?”

“He did.” She shoved the puzzle back into her bag. “It’s nothing. Really. We understand each other.”

The dancer plopped onto the stool next to her. “I’m sure you do.”

Her pity was getting on Sylvia’s nerves. She took a fistful of peanuts from the bar dish. “I’m curious about this place. Does anybody live up those stairs?”

“Live?” the blonde echoed. “Up there? Here?”

“I just wondered. Wouldn’t that be funny? Living above a strip club?”

“No, not that I know of.” She frowned as Sylvia went for another handful. “Boy, you are really going to town on those peanuts.”

“I haven’t had dinner,” Sylvia said, realizing as she said it that it was long, long past any normal person’s dinner time. “Say, maybe you can help me.”

“I’ll help you. I don’t want you to have to go back to him,” whispered the blonde.

“Excuse me?”

She motioned to her throat. “We can all see the bruises, honey.”

Oh god. The rope. The nausea and terror of those few minute briefly returned. “It’s been a rough night. Long story. Listen, maybe you’ve seen this guy?”

She opened the dead man’s wallet, and pulled out the driver’s license. The blonde gasped. “That man was just here the other night!”

_And now his head’s busted open at the bottom of a cliff,_ thought Sylvia.

“Say, that’s the address of this joint!!!”

Sylvia nodded.

“But he don’t live here!”

“He sure don’t. But I bet you can tell me about him, and his friends.” She clicked her pen. “And who’s in charge of this place, while you’re at it.”

The dancer leaned in conspiratorially.

As the women talked the bartender wordlessly took the empty peanut dish, eyeballing Sylvia as he passed behind the bar, and right into the telephone booth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHEW this one was so much fun to write!!!  
> Lots of historical notes this week:
> 
> The House Un-American Activities Committee sprang out of anti-Communist paranoia in the 30s, and ramped up its investigations after the war. The Hollywood hearings which led to the infamous 'blacklist' ruined many careers, and drove talents like Charlie Chaplin and Paul Robeson to leave the country. Some, like Val, managed to keep working under fake names, but the majority of blacklisted artists never rebuilt their careers. 
> 
> The young actress who jumped from the H of the Hollywood (then Hollywoodland) sign was Peg Entwistle, in 1932.
> 
> Fun fact: if someone is trying to strangle you with a rope or cord, turn your head to the side to take the pressure off your windpipe. Also, if you need to break someone's grasp on something, pull their pinkies straight down.
> 
> So, disclaimer: I have no idea if private dances were a thing yet in the 1950s. I couldn't find a single source for or against. Sal Caliente's is certainly operating outside LA municipal law, so there's no reason they wouldn't have VIP booths (and the idea of Hans interrogating a stripper during a private dance was too good to pass up.) It ain't noir until we visit some seedy nightclubs, right?
> 
> Thank you again for your kind comments!!!


End file.
